Promissory

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

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

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

An Exercise

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

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

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

Bellum para Vellum

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

It's all there really is to live for.

Alcomists

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Estuary

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perpetuating Stereotypes on the Streets of Manhattan

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

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

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

"Stop," she interjected.

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

"I know."

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

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

Not for a billion dollars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unleash the cadaver dogs.

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

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

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

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

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure sounds that way," Vince agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Drawing Board

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrrrrrrrrrr

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

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

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

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

"What size? AA or AAA?"

"I don't know."

"Well I'm not going to check."

"Why not?"

"I'd have to touch it."

"So?"

"It feels weird without you here."

"You're such a man."

"Thanks, Babe."

"It wasn't a compliment."

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

"It could be awhile."

"Love you, too."

Copper and Steel

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

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

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

Enablers

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

Liver like Swiss

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

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

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

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

"The Four-Legged Avenger"

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

With your libido, yes.

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

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

Sable

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fission"

"Jesus it was cold out there."

"Yeah."

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

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

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

"I've been eating more."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

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

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

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

"Not really."

"What's wrong, Jane?"

"Nothing."

"I know when something's bothering you."

"I'm just worried."

"About what?"

"This is the way I felt last time."

"Last time what?"

"Nevermind."

"Oh. Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well. It's impossible, right?"

"Right."

"I mean you can't be."

"No."

"But if you were..."

"I couldn't."

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

"I couldn't, Joe."

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

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

"There! That. Did you hear that?"

"No."

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

"I'm not stopping you."

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

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

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

"So?"

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

"Seems pointless."

"But why bother boarding it up?"

"Right."

"Jane?"

"Yes?"

"Did you open the window?"

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

"Right. You couldn't."

THC

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Blame it on poor camera-work.

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

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

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

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

Pelvis

"I'd leave you if you were paralyzed,"
she said after telling me about a distant
cousin who'd grown bitter due to her
decision to stay with her husband
who'd been crippled in a car accident a few
weeks before his thirtieth birthday.
"She has to do everything for him.
They can't even make love anymore."

Funny. She was always so naively innocent
except for in that moment. Marriage never
came up between us, let alone divorce.
My response didn't seem to matter much.

"Yeah. I guess I'd want you to."
The words felt easier to say then
than they are to think about now.
Should I have seen the maelstrom forming?
The bourbon. The razors. The dropping out of school.
But that's another story that I'm tired of telling...

Back to that paraplegic matter.
It was one of those conversations
you have in passing
that sticks out in your mind
years later
because the person fell
out of character
and the topic seems more severe with age.
What is love? Staying or leaving?
Preserving the love you've had
by knowing when to go
or sticking in the ring until the last bell tolls?

Ben got it right: it's watching someone die.
Watching.
Any fraud could turn their eyes.

Drumstick

After chasing her around the room
a few times I finally managed to
trap her in the bed. Whoever assumes
that all rabbits are cuddly little critters
who love human attention is terribly mistaken.
My two-year-old dwarf wants nothing to
do with me and very little to do with anyone else.
The hand that feeds is her favorite to bite;
but at least she does her nails while she's at it.

Let me clarify. Most pet rabbits need to
have their claws clipped from time to time.
If they grow too long they can snap off
during the whole hippity-hop routine
(one of the few stereotypes which is true).
I've had five over the course of my life
and all of them have let me trim their nails.
My current furry friend, however, will
have no part in that endeavour. She won't let me
pick her up, let alone try to cut something off of her.
I didn't want to see her suffer should on of them
break off so I took her to the pet store a year ago
to have the people there have a go at it. One girl
held the bunny down while the other tried (and failed)
to cut her nails. All in all it was a failure and I
still paid the lousy ten bucks.

Then a few weeks ago I decided to make an appointment
with a local vet that had been recommended to me.
It'd cost more than that Hamilton, but would be worth
it if it meant that the rabbit's paws would be protected
from any painful injuries. The day of the appointment came
and I was forced to cancel. Something else came up
that required my immediate attention. Since then I'd been
putting off rescheduling due to my lack of funds
other than the weekly unemployment check
and feeling rather guilty over it.

Tonight, after catching her on my bed
I noticed that she'd taken matters into her own hands.
No longer did her nails protrude from the fur on her paws.
I took a closer look and saw small toothmarks
where she'd bitten them off, essentially giving herself
a manicure since her broke owner wasn't going to foot the bill soon.
I kissed her head in appreciation. She clenched her eyes in disapproval.
The females in my life adapt and overcome my many shortcomings.
I wish they didn't have to, but they do. I hope to pay it back someday.
Don't be fooled by my bellyaching. I'm a lucky man.

Texas toothpick

Woke up with a wicked head
throbbing with Saturday's rum.
I'd won at cards, or had I?
A dagger stuck into the floorboards
next to my bed revealed the blunt attempt
at a mnemonic device I'd made before passing out.
I must've wanted to remember something in the haze
of the morning after and pulled the boot knife
I keep tucked between my mattress and boxspring
to stab into the worn-down grain. It came to me then:
a laughable idea, another attempt to right a wrong
by fumbling further into irreversible oblivion. She'd need
a helping hand from a guy like me like a hole in the head.
And what they said was wrong: I didn't drive her to do it
or to let it be done to her I should say. There's still
accountability, regardless of the weather. I yanked
the black blade from its solid vertical stance and
jabbed it back between the sheets all the while wishing
I had the brass to sink the steel where it really belonged.
Give me a song and I'll sing it. I can't seem to hold this tune.

The Fretboard

In offering
to teach
a friend
a few chords
I thought
of my last
remaining
unsold guitar:
the acoustic
my dad bought
me for my twentieth
birthday.
It sits in
my closet
untouched in its
case
like a sheathed sword
an untold tale
a love that
should've been
but won't.

The songs
the lines
the lives
I could've written
supercede the
ones I've forced.
Sometimes there's
more power
in the potential
to create
than in
the creation
itself.

You can't fall short
of what
may have been;
there's beauty
in that promise.
It's why Red left
his harmonica
unskinned.



Currently reading:
"American Primitive" by Mary Oliver

Lambo

A cop buddy told me once
about a late-night street racer
down on the Island that
the Suffolk County boys
couldn't catch speeding.
They'd be sipping cold coffee
half asleep in their cruisers
on a dark country road
when all of a sudden
something would zip by
through the night
detected only by their radar.
For months they couldn't
make a case of it
until one day the mysterious
Night Rider clipped a deer
and mangled the front end
of his sports car.
When an officer passed by
and found the third-of-a-million-dollar
vehicle immobilized on the side
of the road the pieces began
to fall into place. The driver
failed to hide the night vision goggles
sitting on the passenger seat
of his ride. Up until that night
it boggled the department
how a person could drive at
top speed without his headlights on
but the cat fell out of the bag
or should I say the deer?
It seemed a waste of speed
to not unleash the engine
to its full potential
but the courts failed
to agree. They promoted the patrolman
and impounded the remains
of the Night Rider's car.
The highway department scraped
the deer off the asphalt
and that was the end of an era.
I bought my cop friend a beer
and tried to conjure a whopper
capable of topping his.
I didn't.

George, Martin. George.

I was four or five
and still stumbling around.
He took me fishing
once or twice a week
and I'd lift the catfish
out of our bucket
to show the city kids
at the south end
of Bear Mountain's Hessian Lake
never once being stung
by their poisonous whiskers.
A mantle oversaw me then.

Then one day we graduated
to the mighty Hudson
and for forty-five minutes
he played a giant fish
at West Point's North Dock.
At first he thought it was
a striped bass
but the way the pole bent
and the strength of the beast
led him to believe later on
that it was a six-foot sturgeon
source of precious caviar.
For almost an hour
that sunny Sunday afternoon
he fought against the monster
with both hands
as both eyes were glued
to his young son
playing near the edge
of the dock twenty feet away.
The story goes that he cut the line
intentionally since he couldn't bear
the thought of his child falling into
the river any longer
but I'm not sure if that's
how it happened.
The benefit of the doubt
comes heavily into play.

Behind the trash
can in my room
there's a twenty-three-year-old
photograph that's laid
there crumpled by a drunken rage
for three-quarters
of a year now
and though several folks
have offered to do it
for me I still can't
throw him out yet.
I suppose I owe him that.
He was a better father than his own
but still lost to the cycle.

Beggar's Tale: Confessions of a Rainy-Day Alchemist

2 teachers, a speech therapist
a handful of flustered artists
and a shit-luck alcoholic
walk into a bar...
What do they have in common?
Yeah, that's right-- a starry-eyed
plumber who carries a .40 cal
tucked into his waistband
and wears his heart
up his ass.

But we've wrestled with Death
all night and won. We've tossed back
lions' bones from the mouth of the pit
smirking and laughing and gasping for breath
and we're still not satisfied, you and I.

It's another bluegrass nightmare
in a world too fond of fiddles.
It's a second chance at not wanting
second chances.

I came because I knew you'd be here
and thanked God for the key change.

The Almighty Text Message

A quick glimpse askance
at my second-hand nightstand
while crashing to the bed
reveals an ancient question posed
by those with too much time:
Which is mightier?:
the Glock semi-auto
or the green highlighter
sitting next to it?

Before succumbing to a
nap I know I shouldn't take
I roll over to turn the table's
third occupant on Silent
and come to my conclusion:

It's neither.

An Ode to Susan Mitchell

Fell upon some photos
not entirely by accident
and saw the tell-tale signs:
bruised legs, bad ink, cans
of cheap beer displayed proudly
like badges of courage too stubborn to hide.
She'd been half-way across our great nation
with some greasy white trash half-wit
possibly in a traveling carnival.
There was a time when it seemed
she'd someday surpass her sister's beauty--
now that's out of the question, not that
I ever would've admitted to it had it happened.
And when I made the mistake of
falling upon that other dagger...

We're given one life: somehow
it's both too much and not enough.
There are things for which
you can never apologize. It'd be
unfair to appear again; you bear
it alone and wonder. A checkered floor.
It was always a checkered floor.
Don't fall any further west.
Don't let that scarf unravel.
I'd give that gold back if I could.
I never deserved it anyway.

The closest thing to living.

"So why do you stay?"
they ask me
"Like two cats
with tails tethered together
flung over a line
to tear each other to shreds
in the name of..."
but by then
I cut them off.

"No, not that word,"
I correct them.
"That's far too pragmatic."

"Then what is it?"
they ask, wishing for
a dictionary.

"Do you know
that feeling you get
when you're driving at night
on the left side of
a two-lane highway
and you come up behind
another vehicle at
twenty over the speed limit
and they immediately move
aside for you because they're
assuming you must be a cop
since you're going that fast
and when they realize you're not
and misjudged your headlights
they get back in the left lane
but its too late since
you've passed them already
and are almost out of site?"

"No."

"Then nevermind."

It's only skin.

Last night as I rode down a street near my mother's that I'd driven hundreds of times a funny image came to my mind's eye: myself, age eleven, and my best friend at the time gathering water-damaged sheets of paper in the grass next to the shoulder. Our bikes had been tossed aside without hesitation, once-prized possessions now reduced to second-rate scraps of metal and rubber. "This one's in good shape!" Brian called to me, stuffing the crumpled magazine into his coat. "Her head's missing on the page I found, but that doesn't matter," I may have replied. Cars were passing by us on that busy route, possibly our mothers, so we had to act fast to round up our quarry. "Come on, let's get out of her, Bri," a characteristically nervous pre-pubescent version of myself pleaded once the risk outweighed the reward. We rode our bikes back to whichever fort we currently had in the woods behind our development to examine our new-found booty.

Pornographic magazines were sinful treasures to be cherished growing up in the pre-internet explosion of the mid-90s. They held some answer to a question we weren't quite sure how to ask yet. Sure, we'd seen the naked female form before, but never like this. A full-frontal shot in a late-night movie on a pay channel sent us into a confused state of quasi-innocent bliss. A little bush was all it took. What lied underneath that puff of slightly darker hair, however, was still a mystery; sometimes one that I wish I'd never solved. This is where the likes of Hustler, Esquire and numerous periodicals with grotesquely explicit names came into play. Just what was going on behind closed doors that grown-ups seemed so ashamed of, exactly?

Our mothers may have still bought our clothing, but that made us no saints. We wanted to know what all the fuss was about and would go to extraordinary means to accomplish this goal. Sometimes that meant raiding the secret stash of an older brother that could have single-handedly thrashed both of us at the same time without breaking a sweat. "Sean's not home. I know where he keeps them," Brian would say. Then, depending on Sean's latest hiding spot, we'd raid a sock drawer, lift a mattress, or overturn some large flat rock in the woods down by the railroad tracks. "Here, check this one out," my partner in crime would say, handing me a folded nudie mag that he'd just peeled from a shopping bag used to keep out whatever moisture the rock failed to protect it from. "The blonde on page 42 looks like that student teacher in Mrs. Pringle's class." At that point page 42 couldn't come fast enough as my thumbs flipped frantically to unstick the soggy pages. There she was, in all her glory. No longer would we need to resort to undressing her with our eyes. We knew what Mrs. Pringle's hot little helper looked like in the buff, and that she had some other male fans interested in sharpening their pencils as well. Did people ever do that to our moms? They must've, at some point, otherwise we wouldn't be here. At times the revelation was a bit too much to handle. Even now at age twenty-five it's rather unsettling.

Once we were done perusing the stash we'd return the magazines to their temporary resting places as if they'd never been touched. Kids are just as sneaky as adults, they often leave things a certain way to know if they've been handled by someone else. It wouldn't be a crime brought to the attention of Brian's mother for obvious reasons. Sean would seek his own justice in the form of our pummeling; well, Brian's, but Brian would be sure to include me in the sentence with a simple "It was his idea!" since pain, like misery, loves company. In retrospect, it may have been a terrible idea touching those soiled pages at all, regardless of the danger. Sean was a few years older than us and may have discovered the true purpose of pornography. Just what exactly was he doing with the door locked all the time? I'll leave it at that for the sake of this one's light-hearted nature. Perhaps I've already said too much.

Just as wars are fought over and debts are paid with money, the sacred porno books were used as a form of crude currency. If a friend made you mad to the point of irreconcilability there was one place you could hit him where it'd truly hurt. Stealing, exposing, or (gasp) defiling ones collection was a blow dealt only to those with whom there was absolutely no chance of any future peaceful relations. Likewise, a truce could often come about through the gracious presentation of a valued piece. Then, of course, there was the amiable trade brought on by sheer boredom with ones own array of two-dimensional naked women. Think of it as a less traditional wampum, minus the ceremonial smoking of the peace pipe. Brian found the latter later on in life. I too found one, though in an unexpected place that led to further questions, spurred another mystery, fueled another fire; but we'll leave that alone for a later date.

And Brian, if you're out there, I'm sure you've learned the same thing about the three-dimensional variety: most of them are better as someone else's problem.

A laid-off Desk Potato rescued by Civic Duty.

The summons came
in the mail yesterday
seemingly a curse at first
but now that the expected agitation
has run its natural course
and fizzled out
I've come to believe
that next week's Jury Duty
may be a blessing in disguise:
at least it'll force me
to put pants on every day.

Embracing the Rag.

Fill Glass half-way with Ice.

Pour:
1 part Vodka over Ice.

Add:
2 parts Tomato Juice
2 Tbspn Horseradish
3 dashes Hot Sauce
1 dash Worcestshire Sauce
1 squirt Lemon Juice
Salt + Pepper to taste.

Shake vigorously, garnish with Celery or Lemon.


It won't get you where you want to be, but my God is it delicious...Just don't tell your friends.

amputations

Some has-been made a fool
of himself on the blaring TV
as the five of us sipped hard
for our own respective reasons.

A lull evoked a question:

"Would you ever get
a meaningless tattoo?"

"Most of mine
don't mean much anymore."

Some has-been made a fool of himself
and begged for that sweet castration.

Blood in His plumbing.

Haiti had a
seven-point-oh
on the Richter
its worst in two
hundred years.
It's another
reminder
of our angry

God who loves

to kick those
who are dark
and down.

Stooltop, pre-Happy Hour

"They used to add
saltpeter to
prisoners' food
to kill their libidos."

"Get outta here."

"It's true. Now they
use turkey
to make them tired.
Trouble is it does
the same thing
to the guards."

"Well let me tell you
why I worry
about what they say
happens once they eat
the wedding cake."

"The end of an era."

"Use it or lose it."

"Or both."

"Do you know what
the praying mantis
does afterwards?"

"At least it's honest."

"At least it's quick."

"Donna, get him another one."

"Thanks, Andy."

"You need it more than I do."

"Should I send the postcard here
or to your house?"

"Whichever she feels best."

"Then neither."

Writers and the women who've loved them.

There's a black-and-white
photograph in the first few pages
of my Robinson Jeffers book.
He's sitting in a wooden chair
wearing a checkered suit
and loosened white collar
reciting lines to his equally withered wife
as she transcribes his poetry.
He went blind at the end, the poor old hawk.

And the same with my first friend Fyodor.
Good ol' Dos lost his vision, too
but he had a hot young vixen
one third of his age
to write his last lines down.
That final masterpiece of his
never made it to the publisher.
The experts say it was supposed to be
the sequel to "Brothers K", but
I'd like to think that it was something
pornographic, something mildly obscene
just to get that little honey's panties
in a frenzy. That beard didn't reek
of vodka alone when they put
Dostoyevsky in the ground.

Sorry, Robbie.
The Russky's got you beat.
But hey, if it's any consolation
I'm lucky if my old lady
even let's me use the damn typer
since the clickety-clack conflicts
with her beauty sleep.
She's a keeper, though. I swear it.
I'll just need a room to write in
when it's time to buy a house.

Game. Set. Match.
And if she were here
I'd be sleeping on the couch.

The local bookstore's closing and I'm not at all surprised.

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A pipewrench in the cogs of Democracy.

The apprenticeship committee seems to think they have a free supply of slave labor at hand. Us plumbers in training may be eager to lend our services for a valiant cause, but most of the assignments we've received through the years have been of question. There always seems to be some underhanded deal behind the scenes, some personal gain for an unkown string-puller somewhere, some hidden agenda that the likes of us "lower than whale shit" peons aren't to question. This year's "community service" was no different.

They told us we'd be running a phone bank for a local politician whose name we've all seen plastered throughout the county for years. His incumbent status made our efforts feel futile; this guy's been entrenched in his office like a tick between the rolls of fat on a dog's neck for years. In no way did he need our help. That was not the worst part of the task set before us, however. Once again it was the age-old story of the ends not justifying the means. "Phone bank", you see, is a pretty little euphemism for "glorified telemarketers who call during dinner hours". Nobody likes receiving those calls in the evening while trying to enjoy a meal or unwind on a recliner after a long day's work. In fact, if some stranger were to harass me via telephone in the name of some politician I'd probably be even less likely to vote for him. That's why I didn't feel so bad about dialing my own number over and over again on the provided touch-tone phone and pretending the recite the speech the political organizers had handed out to us. "Hello, my name is (blank) and I'm calling on behalf of (so-and-so) to ask you to come out and vote on November Fourth..." Sometimes I'd mix it up by cutting the lines short and shaking my head, a forced frown on my face. It was more convincing if I acted like people hung up on me once in awhile.

When the Higher Ups weren't looking I'd sit back in the cushioned swivel chairs of the campaign headquarters and peruse the list of names and numbers. There were pages upon pages of county residents, I couldn't believe the effort involved. It made me wonder how the information was gathered. Another third-party records salesman perhaps? I recognized some last names common to the region and wondered if they were of any relation to the people I knew. A Pungello from Washingtonville, a Barber from Middletown, a long list of Roses. Then there was a girl I used to know in the Biblical sense from time to time post-party during my drunken rabble-rouser days. Funnily enough, her number was one of the few not listed next to its corresponding name. I took it as a sign not to bother calling her toll-free to catch up and apologize for the blunders of youth. She was one of the few who was older than me anyway, and therefore inherently wiser. I'm sure she's since forgiven me; at least that's what I tell myself.

Naturally there were the funny names. I can't remember all but one of them, thankfully the best one. I'm assuming the man was of Indian descent, maybe Pakistani. The most logical explanation for the poor choice in surname would be a foreign origin. I hoped for his sake that he immigrated here after completing high school in his own country of birth. If not, I'm sure he suffered a world of pain in the form of locker room mockery. "Hey there, Ramdass. Feeling a little sore this morning?" I highlighted his name on my list and passed it along to the other apprentices. A violent chuckle usually came after reading the man's name, or sometimes just a sympathetic snort. By the time the sheet of paper got back to me it had been adorned with an accompanying cartoon devoted to the irony of Mr. Ramdass's name. I'll leave that illustration to your imagination, though; I opt for the written word to express myself. Everyone works best in his own particular medium.

Oddly enough, I think I was the only one of my apprental brethren to refuse to actually call anyone. It's not that I have a problem with authority, it's that I don't believe in advocating for a political campaign that I know very little about simply because my union has told me to do so. As far as I know that politician won his silly election regardless. And me? I got to miss a night of plumbing class, washed three slices of free pizza down with half a liter of equally free Coke, and got these five paragraphs out of the deal. Milk 'em for what you can, brothers.

A Penny-Pincher's Gift

I found it in the foyer closet at my mother's house two weeks ago and already it's a bust. At first I was excited: a normal black zip-up hoodie that my father must've given me ten years ago. He had an obsession with giving me coats, jackets, and sweatshirts-- always at least two sizes too big. This long forgotten one, however, fit perfectly when I tried it on. "Oh, that looks good on you," my mother said as I checked for fit. Thankfully, the small logo on the chest was gray and tasteful; most of the stuff my father bought was bright, gaudy, and of brands more becoming of a downtown drug dealer's wardrobe. A modest piece like this one was a rare find. After three years of silence between us it seemed a sub-par delayed parting gift, but one that would be accepted.

As the weekly nightmares about him suggest, however, Charlie always wins.

The Better Half and I were getting ready to leave her mother's house after an impromptu dinner get-together. I went to the bedroom where our jackets had been tossed and donned my new black hoodie. After washing my hands in the bathroom I took a moment to inspect the garment in the mirror above the sink. That's when it dawned on me: I'd been had. I heard him laughing the last laugh.

"What's wrong with this picture?" I asked my girlfriend and her mother, spreading the front of the sweatshirt out for them by pulling on the elastic band along the bottom.

"Nothing. Why?"

"Look at the gray patches," I said with an admittedly defeated smirk.

"The ones on the shoulders?"

"No, near the pockets."

"Oh..."

There was a small gray triangle under the left pocket, but none under the right. My old man loved to shop at the local clothing store outlets. This must've been one of the factory rejects that he pulled triumphantly from the bargain bin. It fit his modus operandi perfectly. Even in death he wins. He's still breathing, but a man who denies his son's existence may as well be underground, at least to that son.

"Really, it's not noticeable," they tried to console me.

"Maybe not, but it's fitting," I replied before explaining the painfully comic backstory of why it made such sense.

Sure, I'll still wear it. But damn, Dad...for a few weeks I thought you may have done something right for a change.



Currently reading:
"The Early Stories: 1953-1975" by John Updike.

You never forget your last.

I'd only planned on stopping by for a few minutes-- just long enough to drop off her plastic food containers and have some face time with my stepfather. They'd found spots on his tongue that day at the dentist's office. My arrival would show my support. The small unsaids go a long way. Most people don't realize that.

"Alright, ma. I gotta run." I'd considered leaving the truck running as an excuse, but decided not to dig that deep for a ticket home. "Kristen's waiting for me." Not entirely a lie, though she was quite fast asleep in my bed.

"Give me a hug. Thanks for coming by." She squeezed the backs of my arms. The look in her eye seemed to say "I'm the only one who still touches these who remembers them before they were covered in tattoos." Hell, even I don't sometimes.

"He'll be OK. It's probably nothing."

"Yeah. I know you say you don't Believe anymore, but..."

"I will."

It's hard to deny a woman a prayer, even for a lost soul. His father died of throat cancer. They say it's in the blood.

"You wanna run upstairs and say Hello to your grandmother before you go?"

Truthfully, I'd been avoiding it. The old lady was already tucked in at the late hour of six in the evening and her Alzheimer's caused us to have the same conversation every time we met. It was usually about food and my need to eat it while visiting. A Puerto Rican mother's primary concern is feeding her family, even when she's too old and senile to be trusted with the gas stove.

"I would, but I really gotta get going..."

She gave me a look while saying she understood, the two of them contradicting each other. I closed the front door gingerly behind me before coming to my senses. One never knows how many Hellos one has left when it comes to a person of ninety. I turned around and went back inside.

"I couldn't leave."

"Come on, I'll go upstairs with you," my mother said. "She'll be so happy to see you." That look in her eye recognized the son she'd raised regardless of the scars, self-inflicted or otherwise.

"Look who I have here, mom," my mother said as my grandma rolled over in bed to greet us. Her gown was soft and fuzzy like something you'd see in a hospital nursery. Life comes full-circle.

"Oh, my love!" she exclaimed in Spanish. "How good it is to see you. I was thinking of you today. Have you been staying safe at home?"

My mother and I looked at one another accusingly. This must be where the paranoid gene came from.

"Yes. Always." I bit my lip at the absurdity.

"Good, good. And how is your mother doing?" my grandma asked.

My mother, her daughter, glanced sideways at me. "Sad, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said through a still mouth like a disheartened ventriloquist.

"Mom, this is my son. I'm his mother. Remember?"

"What? Really? But I raised him when he was little."

"Yes, you took care of him often, but he's mine."

The three of us laughed uncomfortably. It's hard to watch and harder to ignore the unraveling of a once-sharp mind.

"He has to get going now. His girlfriend is at home making dinner."

"Yes, he should go eat," my grandmother said with the severity of a subpoenaed minister.

"Goodbye, grandma. I love you."

"I love you, too," she said with a dentured smile.

My mother turned her bedroom light off before closing the door. The blue glow of the television shone under the door as we stood in the hallway for our debriefing.

"It was only a little lie to get you outta there. I know she's really sleeping."

"Thanks, mom." I said as I jostled down the stairs to leave. "I'll see you next week."

We say that with an unjustified confidence. One has to believe in something.

Butterface

It's been almost four months since I've worked. Probably should've read more by now; don't have much to show for my time creatively, either. That's the nature of these things, though. Something about a daily routine helps ensure that things get done. In this lazy laid off mode of mine I get around to things when I please or blow them off entirely. Not much seems to matter when you're living on the State's dime. In one of my feeble attempts at changing the pace I skimmed some old notes I had jotted down over the summer when I was renovating the heat system at North Junior High. It's a story my laborer buddy told on coffee break one morning. Must've stuck with me, but never found its way to the surface. Here's what I remember:

There was a female worker on a road crew somewhere in town. She was your typical lady laborer: lean, mean, and far from pretty. Her body was hard and sinewy, yet feminine enough in the right places, but something about her face threw off the whole package. I'm not sure if the proportions were wrong or there was some gross abnormality, but whatever it was it excluded her from a modeling career. From what I gather she's not one you'd tell your friends about the next day. All of that changed in an odd stroke of luck.

Some ditzy broad was driving through the construction area while applying make-up one day. Her distracted state caused her to veer off to the left where our poor little flag girl was standing. Sure enough the blonde's side-view mirror whacked the laborer square in the face, breaking bones and tearing flesh. The driver sped off before anyone could get a license plate number. Fortunately, her boyfriend must've come from equally brilliant stock. He showed up on the job later on that day asking for money for the damaged side-view mirror. The guys dropped their shovels and rakes to respond accordingly. When the cops showed up half an hour later an ambulance was called. No incident report was filed. Justice had been done.

But this isn't a tale of revenge. It's more the Happy Ending sort. With the money from the lawsuit our lucky little laborette was able to get plastic surgery, both reconstructive and cosmetic. Once the doc liften his scalpel for the final time and pulled the last stitch tight she was a regular bombshell. The guys on the job barely recognized her and lonely men passing by in their cars were more than willing to obey her traffic commands. I'm not sure if that mirror ever got fixed, but its owners boyfriend did finally regain use of his limbs after a few months of physical therapy. I didn't say everyone won; someone always has to lose in a truly happy ending.

Now send me back to work, Bobby. I need more yarns like these.

Read the classifieds instead.

For those of you (the dwindling germs...gems)
who've asked
where I've been (licking wounds that haven't come yet)
as of late:

There's a time (it comes, like spring, it comes)
I've learned
when I shouldn't do this:
when I might
be fool enough (don't laugh)
for the truth.

Sing it a capella, friend. (used loosely, of course)
I'm sure that you still can.

An early sign went undetected.

Over on the neighbor's porch
there's a cat that's been pacing
in the two inches of snow (and counting)
trying to scratch its way
through the sliding-glass door.

If only it were eleven already
I'd be watching with a drink in hand
and a chuckle in my gut
well aware of my status
according to the experts.

Embrace what you are.
It's all you've got.

trite and rote in equal parts

"It's like green eggs
and ham," she said.
"You love it or
you hate it."

The cavalry?:
A laugh.
A fairytale to put kids to sleep.

Like breaking plans with friends
and dodging family functions...

Languish:
What a perfect word.

And what am I
to mention now?
Lots of the best
has come from Here
but I can't rack my brain
for the strokes that won't be coming.
The lights? The sirens? The whores?
I can find them anywhere, and have.

I'd rather hide out
between blanket and fan
waiting for the night shift to end.
Take me home, Montezuma.
You can drive my truck; I'll sleep.

"It's more like that cartoon," he sighed.
"An elephant's promise:
one hundred percent."

sans confectionary

In certain lighting
and from certain angles
I swear I'm back in time
though I darenot say where
exactly.

...was the son of a preacher man.

Charlie dragged me along
to a lot of his Born Again functions
when I was a child too young to say No.
Playing catch in the yard
during weekend visitation
was not to be expected; "revivals",
"retreats", "seminars", "conferences"
and many other synonyms
for "Holy Roller nonsense"
were. I saw people "speak in tongues"
and pretend to pass out
when the traveling magicians
would lay their annointed hands
upon the sinners' heads.
In retrospect it was disgusting--
the farce of all farces
based on insecurity.

It seemed each guest speaker
each "minister"
(and I'll refrain from further
quotation marks to avoid redundancy
though you can assume they
are implied)
had some gimmick to set
him apart from the last prophet
or apostle to roll through town:
a new mantra for weak souls
to live by, a fresh-pressed pinstripe suit
or a direly important word from the Man Upstairs.

But it dawned on me today
some ten years since
I've set foot in a church
for anything other than
a secular tradition
that all of those men
had one thing in common:

breath so bad it
would've raised Lazarus.

Snow behind closed doors.

The bedroom door was locked
for a few disheartening minutes
at the party's drunken zenith--
it raised several stiff eyebrows
among the dizzy cocktail crowd.

"What's going on in there?"
a drinking buddy asked me.

"No idea," I lied, sucking harder at my rum.

The truth would've made me
seem quite the sudden hypocrite;
I prefer the slow-burn method:
such a tasteful crucifixion.

When the door opened again
we saw the tell-tale mirror compact
as it checked for evidence
but pretended not to notice.

"They were discussing Christmas presents,"
I fibbed through crooked teeth, well aware
he didn't give a damn about my gifts or me.
"All top-secret stuff."

That second line wasn't a stretch.

It's harder to feign naivety
than it is an air of splendor.

Take your pills.

Herbert Krinkstrom sipped what was left of the instant coffee he'd made and put the empty mug down on the night stand. His wife, Marlene, had recently made him switch to decaf. A mound of pillows supported him as he leaned back against his bedroom wall and sighed to himself. He knew Marlene be coming home soon. That woman was like clockwork. If only he could have a few more minutes of peace.

"Herb? Herb, why isn't the water running?" came her shrill voice through the foyer. She had barely been in the house for five seconds before she noticed his failure to comply. Could she hear the plumbing's silence through the brick exterior walls of their house? "Herbert, you know I like my bath at eight-thirty. Why can't you manage to get anything right?" Her words trailed off as she disappeared into other regions of their brownstone in search of nits to pick regarding the many short-comings of Herbert's less-than-productive day.

"Guilty, your honor..." he whispered to himself as he scrambled down the hall to draw her bath.

"What was that?" Marlene shrieked from some unknown location. "Herbert, I may have to start leaving you a list on the refrigerator. If this marriage is going to work, then..."

But he'd already closed the bathroom door behind him; gingerly, of course.

Herbert Krinkstrom sat on the edge of the cast-iron tub with his wrist under the faucet. If Marlene sprung through the door and caught him ignoring the water's temperature it'd be curtains for his evening. The detective program he'd planned on watching later on that night would no longer be for his viewing pleasure. If Herbert didn't straighten out his act, and quickly, Marlene would force him to watch her shopping shows. He knew this from prior experience.

The tub was finally three-quarters of the way full so Herbert withdrew his wet wrist and turned off the tap. Steam rose from the tub in what appeared the be the same rhythm as his heartbeat. Was he having another anxiety attack? Marlene wouldn't like it if she had to take him to the hospital again...

Rising to his feet, he reached for the make-up mirror on the vanity. It was a free-standing round affair, a thin rim of blue glass surrounding its circumference. The glass was dull and smooth like it had been washed by years of waves. Herbert though back to the sea-glass he and Marlene found on the beach during their honeymoon. It seemed like ages ago. He smiled briefly, until he remembered how that vacation ended.

Herbert lifted the round mirror to his face for the first time ever. To his horror his nose appeared to be elongated and bulging at the sides, his pores dark caverns filled with unflattering bodily oils. It must be magnified on this side, he thought to himself as he flipped the mirror around. Why would women want to intensify their flaws? No wonder they had insecurity issues. No wonder he was so miserable. No wonder half the male population of the city seemed to be homosexual.

"Herbert, stop zoning out with my mirror and fetch me some fresh towels," Marlene nagged. He hadn't even heard the bathroom door open. Maybe that doctor was right. The episodes seemed to be getting worse. No one would have to know about the prescription. No one but Marlene, of course.

"Sorry, dear," he plaintively replied. "I'll be right back."

By the time Herbert returned from the linen closet his wife was already in the tub. Five years into their marriage they stopped making love, eight years in she stopped undressing in front of him, and now she barely admitted to having a vagina at all. As long as things flowed undisruptedly Herbert didn't mind so much. He'd gone without sex for most of his youth; he could manage again in middle-age.

"Marlene, I...I'm sorry to have to ask this, but I really have to..."

"Oh, go ahead and use the toilet, you brute. You had all day to urinate! Why'd you have to wait for me to get home? You know how important my bath is to me, but you completely forgot to have it ready. Now I'll have to hurry if I'm going to catch the beginning of my shopping program..."

Checkmate. The shopping show. If a life-sized queen were in the room he would've knocked it over, preferably right onto his loving wife reclining in the tub.

"...and make sure you sit down while you do your business. I don't want to hear that awful tinkling sound while I'm trying to unwind after a hard day's work. Work. Ha! Remember when you used to do that, Herbert?"

His blood pounded in his temples as he sat on the toilet seat biting his lower lip until he tasted copper. The blow-dryer was still plugged into the outlet next to the sink. Maybe he could toss it into the tub and make it look like an accident. Hell, even prison would be better than this, he thought.

Once the final drop was squeezed he stood and buttoned his pants. It'd only be two hours until he got to go to sleep. That was the only thing keeping him from a jury of his peers and a twenty-year sentence in a medium security country club.

"You're not going to leave that in there, are you?" Marlene asked snidely, shattering Herbert's pleasurable prison fantasy. "Flush that vile stuff!"

"Sorry, my love," Herbert replied in a tone far from autonomous. He pushed the lever down and the contents of the bowl splashed out onto his leg as the violent flush cycle commenced.

"Now look at what you've done to your pants, you slob!" Marlene yelled, her hair lathered with shampoo. "You've truly gotten worse, Herbert. These zombie spells of yours are starting to worry me. Maybe it's time..."

He wasn't listening anymore. His Happy Place descended onto his consciousness like a warm blanket. Seaweed, Herbert thought to himself. He wanted to be reborn as a tiny clump of seaweed waving gently on the ocean floor. Even at the Jersey Shore.

"...and when you're done putting those filthy pants in the laundry basket why don't you go and call that plumber friend of yours and see if he can come fix our toilet tomorrow?"

"Joe's not in town, Marlene. He and his wife went..."

"Oh, for crying out loud! Enough with the excuses. Why can't I have a normal marriage with a responsible husband who takes me on vacations like Mrs....Mrs...What's Joe's last name again? Herbert? Herbert, come back here!"

As he cut the cable connection behind the television set Herbert Krinkstrom smiled knowing he didn't have any electrician friends. Marlene would have to lie through her lipstick tomorrow on her coffee break at work when the other women chatted about those stupid shopping shows.

The barristas sighed in unison, rolling bloodshot eyes.

"Babe, that's him!" I said
almost choking on my
Chocolate Truffle Espresso.

"Who?" she asked
turning around in her seat.

"Albert Taylor," I answered.
She knew the name well.
I'd mentioned him every time
we passed the McDonald's on
Eighth Ave where Albert and I met
three months ago at four in the morning.
I'd been chasing shots of Sambuca
with gin-and-tonics for five hours;
he'd been talking to himself
in busy fast-food restaurants
for a few decades.
Somehow the playing field
was leveled.

When I stumbled through
the Golden Arches
in a non-discerning search
for breakfast food or cheeseburgers
Albert caught my ear, my heart, my liver.
He was muttering to himself about
Xerxes, Thebes, Alexander the Great.
A sheet of music and three wrinkled
newspapers sat on the table
in front of him, a cup of black coffee
in his left hand.

Al was one of those intriguing black men
who could've been anywhere from fifty
to seventy-five. His melon-colored button-down
meshed nicely with the pinstripe suit he wore
and his gnarled, broken teeth sat between
his heavy lips making him resemble
a jabbering hippopotamus.
I sat across from him for at least two hours
listening to his passionate soliloquies
as I ate my Deluxe Breakfast Platter
washed down with orange juice from concentrate.
Twice I offered to buy him something
perhaps a refill for his Joe
but he fervently declined.
All Albert wanted as a soul to talk to, or at
and I was in no shape to refuse
let alone walk back and figure out
which of the three keys
opened their three respective locks
to her apartment.

By the time I managed to escape
the sun was coming up over
the jagged city skyline.
He was talking about the laws of Logic
after my failed attempt to explain the
Law of Syllogism when I finally interjected:
"Albert, the Law of Woman says I'd better
be getting home before mine starts to worry."
He kept on rambling as I rose and donned my coat.
I'd done my part in terms of exiting politely.
He'd done his in helping me sober up a bit.
The odds were in my favor again.

When I told her about my fascinating encounter
she shook her head and said I shouldn't
talk to crazy strangers while drunk
and alone in public. The beauty of
the scene was lost in my poor explanation
as is often the case with my limited abilities.

But now the man was back.
Out of seven million people
bustling about the Isle of Manhattan
I had chanced to stumble upon
this unmistakable individual yet again.
It seemed a gift from God.

"I want to say Hi," I told her
with naive enthusiasm.

"Don't bother. He won't remember you,"
she said snidely between sips.

"I know that. But I remember him.
Come on, I'll introduce you."

"Don't you dare..."

The conversation drifted elsewhere though
my eyes kept drifting back
to Albert's progress through the room.
All the seats were taken
at the overpriced chain coffeehouse
and that was all he'd come for.
After one disheartening lap throughout
the shop he made his way for the front door
and walked back out into the brisk night.
His lips didn't stop moving once
while he was amongst us. Albert
was just as certifiably nuts
as the first time I'd seen him, not that
this came as a surprise.
Part of me was glad to see the man
was still kicking. I thought of
how ridiculous I must've looked that night
sitting at his table listening intently
to all he had to say. Who was truly
the one out of his mind in that scenario?

"I should've said something," I groaned
shortly after his departure. "It's such
a random coincidence to be seeing him again
that it seems like a waste of fate not to act on it."

"No. You're better off leaving him alone."

Too many people already have in his lifetime, I thought.

We left it at that and went back to talk
of Russian literature
and all its confusing characters
and sub-plots. It seemed much
less substantial, though.
Dostoevsky spun in his grave.

Next time, Al.
Next time.



Currently reading:
"Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" by Hunter S. Thompson

The Lab

We were probably too young
to be playing with it
but my mother wasn't about
to confiscate a crazy aunt's
Christmas gift from a ten-year-old.
Besides, limiting the play area
to the back patio of our condo
meant less work for her
when it came time to do laundry--
no more mucky swamps
pricker bushes leaving thorns in clothes
or
socks drenched with murky pond water.
She didn't mind me inviting friends over
to play with the chemistry set out back
as long as I didn't make a mess.

The first thing we did when opening the box
was toss aside any and all enclosed literature.
A guided study of the chemical world
was not what we sought. Come to think of it
none of us knew what we were looking for
other than an alternate way to waste an afternoon.
We'd seen mad scientists mixing unknown substances
on TV shows and in movies before, what further
instruction could we possibly need?

The company did us the favor of dyeing
the six different substances bright and varied colors.
It made our pointless experimental endeavours
seem more dangerous and meaningful
when the crystals and powders
we spooned into tests tubes
were vivid reds and neon yellows.
Once we'd mixed a few together
and added some of the provided distilled water
it all turned brown, of course.
And when that special water ran out
we stole some from my mother's
bottle of spring water in the refrigerator.

I'd venture to say that the manufacturer's biggest
mistake was including the candle.
Matches were still illicit and coveted items
to children of our young age.
We were ardently preventing forest fires
as per one famous Bear's advice
and some of us still said our prayers at night.
All of that stigma could be disregarded
in the name of science, though.
Most of the concoctions we created
were boiled at some point, the metal tongs
provided in the kit being used to hold
the test tubes over the candle's flame.
One time when my buddy held the glass
too close to the fire the test tube quickly
blackened and exploded. We cleaned up
the evidence of our exciting blunder
and thanked our lucky stars that our
potion was not potent enough to blow off a hand.
Later on in life that friend of mine
became much more proficient with chemicals.

But when the powders and flakes and test tubes
ran out, so did our fun playing scientist.
Back to the woods to play Rambo, back to
the swamp to catch frogs.
All we cured with our brief stint in research
was a case of the Sunday Afternoon Blues.
At ten years old
what else could we have asked for?

His Masterpiece.

"Are you interested in pictures?" he asked
after catching me staring at the wall
of his apartment which he'd plastered
with the one person we had in common.
He politely left the implied "...of my daughter"
part out of his question. There's a grace
that must only come with gray, or so I thought.

"Yes. Please."

He led me into his room
where even more photographs
of his children, mostly his youngest
lined the perimeter. It was like
being on holy ground, or the inside
of a submarine.

"Here...this is me as an infant...right
above her baby picture."

Daddy's Little Girl, alright.
I almost chuckled at the symbolism
but couldn't cheapen his shrine
once I saw his silly grin.
We continued to admire
thirty years of beauty
framed throughout his room.

"God...that hair. It breaks my heart."

"You like her with long hair?"

"I like her either way, but yes.
How it was when we met."

"I like it short," he said
and once again I felt out-numbered.

We shared a few brief silent moments
absorbing her smile until he interjected--

"This one was taken at Universal Studios
when she was seeing that guy who..."

"Please don't," I begged, waving my hand
in his stubborn direction. It was no use.

"Oh, no. It's fine. She was with this..."
he continued with his signature lack
of social tact, let alone remorse.
She was right: he really was oblivious.
I pulled a trick from my former life as an amphibian
and sealed my ears to keep out the bad.
The past. The ones who did her wrong.
We stumbling knights in tarnished armor
always hate the men in ten-gallon black hats.

"How about her lovely tan in this one?"
I asked in a desperate attempt
to change the subject
that he was so adamant about clarifying.

"That's when she lived in LA with her brother."

"She's gorgeous," I said in a tone humbled by beauty.

"That's my girl."

I could've chimed in self-inclusively, but opted
to let him have that one to himself.
The photos proved he'd earned it.
Someday I'll ask if he thinks I could, too.

Love Poem, Redux

Most times
I'm not with you
I just wear
a hat.

I'd offer to help, but...

I'm not sure if it's his brother
or an in-law who's doing it
but someone has been taking
my recently deceased neighbor's
slacks and dress shirts
out to his garage
all morning.

Every twenty minutes or so
he takes a smoke break on the steps
looking out across the lawn
at what the buried man had built.
I wonder if he knows
that I know
what he's thinking.

It's a task that'll help the widow cope.

I hope I find a friend like that.
I hope they throw the clothes away.
Donation's overrated.

He's out there now, taking short drags
and talking to himself.
It's forty degrees, but he's wearing short sleeves.
The bald spot's slowly growing.
He's wondering who's next.
He just caught me staring.

The daring young squirrel on the flying trapeze.

The summer before last
was an odd one
if for no other reason
than the squirrel
that broke into our house
several times.
It chewed through the screens
of open kitchen windows
plundering whatever dry food
it could find on the shelf.
One time I came home from work
and froze as soon as I saw it
poised and ready
on the kitchen counter.
It scrambled back through
the hole it had made
after our five-second locked-eye showdown.
Truth be told I was just as startled as it was.

Casey finally managed to shoot one
with his pellet gun after
hours dedicated to the stalk.
Another screen was detroyed a week later
thus telling us an innocent party
had been executed.
Whether the death set an example
or the burglar squirrel found a new
house to terrorize we never found out
but the break-ins ceased shortly thereafter.
It was a good thing, too.
The next plan of action was one
a bit less discerning than the
single-squirrel assassination.

Casey called his dad in Virginia
who told him a story about the time
he wiped out the yard's squirrel population.
He let some oranges ferment in the garage
and threw them on the lawn
once the alcohol content was able to be smelled.
The squirrels ate the intoxicating fruit, returned to
the branches they inhabited, then proceeded
to plummet to the ground once the
booze ran its course through their veins.
Apparently their impaired motor coordination and blurred vision
made it hard to maneuver from limb to limb
and when they leapt and missed and fell thirty feet
it was no wonder that their cute little necks snapped.
Although the rodents went out with a buzz
and probably never felt a thing
it sounds a bit barbaric and I'm glad
it didn't come down to that.

We still can't open half the windows
in the kitchen because of the gaping holes
in the screens left by that one summer's tyrant.
That animal left its mark, alright.
It's more than some of us will ever be able to say.
But it's two in the afternoon and I can smell myself.
Maybe it's time to shower and stop this reminiscing.