You swore it was yours.
It wasn't.
It was a desperate
frown on a kid's face
after some prick
told him there is
no Santa Claus.
It was the instant loss
of innocence that can't
be undone by money.
It was the undying promise
of death given at reality's birth.
Once it's there
it's there for life.
You see it in their eyes.
Whose?
Everyone's.
(I've clearly injected
myself too much here.
How can one not
and have it be real?
Go with it for the sake
of the story.)
There are some things, ma'am
I'd rather not know
like if I'd enjoy Kentucky.
All the rumors you've heard
are frightfully true:
I'm a self-declared bastard
gallivanting down Main
as a martyr too eager
with a pen in his hand
and a gun at his hip.
There's no Easter Bunny either.
11.30.2011
11.28.2011
The Best Contraceptive
It's usually more
like babysitting than work.
The pipes are mostly silent
but my buddy's son is not.
He's nine and precocious.
He likes feeling useful.
If I can keep him busy I try to
though most times he's bored
and gets in my hair. My friend
brings him along on our
moonlighting jobs to get one
of three young sons out of
his wife's weary lap. It's no wonder
that he's going gray and balding
prematurely. I used to be envious.
That all has changed.
"My dad pays you way
more than me," he whines
in reference to his three bucks a day.
"There's an aggravation tax involved,"
I tell him, sending the joke
clean over his short-cropped hair.
"Did your dad pay you a lot
when you helped him as a kid?"
I think back to my first paying job
trimming tree limbs from the massive
pines on his property
in the Adirondacks. Five an hour
for back-breaking work. I was the same
age as the squirt kneeling next to me
but I had no one around to pester
and mistakes have no siblings.
With my meager earnings
I bought a fox pelt at a taxidermy shop
on the ride home from the mountains.
I've always made wise purchases.
I've always had sweet gigs.
"No," I tell him through
my teeth while wondering
what those trees look like now.
The pelt is long gone
if not in his basement.
The trees might be, too.
He's bad with his money.
My diminutive partner won't let it rest.
"What'd you guys do?"
"Not much. He wasn't very
good with his hands," I reply
with an understatement
as the wrench slips a bit
"or much else."
Junior takes a moment
to ponder the strange existence
of a mechanically useless father
unheard of in his neck of the woods.
I tighten the screws in the floor drain
wishing more than dirty water
could be washed down its void.
A staticky country tune I've begrudingly
come to love blares in the other room
where my friend's setting fixtures.
Aside from the God part the song's
got it right: booze is good, people
are crazy.
"You don't talk about him much,"
the boy says. Clearly we've never
tossed cocktails back together
and if we're lucky we never will.
I don't want to be the same man
when he's old enough to drink.
The next inevitable question comes
timed perfectly with the dripping
of sweat from my brow--
"Is he dead?"
My answer lands before
he can refill his lungs.
It's no lie. There's more
to being alive than breathing.
You've got to have a soul
and not only worry about
whether or not it's Saved.
The kid pulls out his pocketknife
and cleans dirt from under his nails.
If only adults could have the same
detached responses to answers
that made their questions regrettable.
I chisel out some tile to make room
for the drain. The floor guys never
remove enough. It's hard to willingly
destroy your own work, especially
when on your knees.
"Can I do that?" he asks, his knife
no longer relevant.
"No," I say in as kind a voice
as I can fake. "Go help your old man."
like babysitting than work.
The pipes are mostly silent
but my buddy's son is not.
He's nine and precocious.
He likes feeling useful.
If I can keep him busy I try to
though most times he's bored
and gets in my hair. My friend
brings him along on our
moonlighting jobs to get one
of three young sons out of
his wife's weary lap. It's no wonder
that he's going gray and balding
prematurely. I used to be envious.
That all has changed.
"My dad pays you way
more than me," he whines
in reference to his three bucks a day.
"There's an aggravation tax involved,"
I tell him, sending the joke
clean over his short-cropped hair.
"Did your dad pay you a lot
when you helped him as a kid?"
I think back to my first paying job
trimming tree limbs from the massive
pines on his property
in the Adirondacks. Five an hour
for back-breaking work. I was the same
age as the squirt kneeling next to me
but I had no one around to pester
and mistakes have no siblings.
With my meager earnings
I bought a fox pelt at a taxidermy shop
on the ride home from the mountains.
I've always made wise purchases.
I've always had sweet gigs.
"No," I tell him through
my teeth while wondering
what those trees look like now.
The pelt is long gone
if not in his basement.
The trees might be, too.
He's bad with his money.
My diminutive partner won't let it rest.
"What'd you guys do?"
"Not much. He wasn't very
good with his hands," I reply
with an understatement
as the wrench slips a bit
"or much else."
Junior takes a moment
to ponder the strange existence
of a mechanically useless father
unheard of in his neck of the woods.
I tighten the screws in the floor drain
wishing more than dirty water
could be washed down its void.
A staticky country tune I've begrudingly
come to love blares in the other room
where my friend's setting fixtures.
Aside from the God part the song's
got it right: booze is good, people
are crazy.
"You don't talk about him much,"
the boy says. Clearly we've never
tossed cocktails back together
and if we're lucky we never will.
I don't want to be the same man
when he's old enough to drink.
The next inevitable question comes
timed perfectly with the dripping
of sweat from my brow--
"Is he dead?"
My answer lands before
he can refill his lungs.
It's no lie. There's more
to being alive than breathing.
You've got to have a soul
and not only worry about
whether or not it's Saved.
The kid pulls out his pocketknife
and cleans dirt from under his nails.
If only adults could have the same
detached responses to answers
that made their questions regrettable.
I chisel out some tile to make room
for the drain. The floor guys never
remove enough. It's hard to willingly
destroy your own work, especially
when on your knees.
"Can I do that?" he asks, his knife
no longer relevant.
"No," I say in as kind a voice
as I can fake. "Go help your old man."
Fisherman's War Paint
Right hand on left flank
and the inverse correct--
This is what chromosomes
dealt were predestined.
Face in a pillow
almost forget.
Saint candles burning
straight down like a fuse.
Moans turn to whimpers
and back into moans.
Offer a towel, a cold glass of water.
They know not to call.
They know they've been used
led like white livestock
up three flights to slaughter.
It helps with the yearning
the passing of time.
She'll leave in the morning
with clothes from the floor.
It's hard to think twice
once giving the lines.
She came like a lady.
She'll leave a bit sore.
Fisherman's war paint
misanthrope's fuel
lush's reminder
that Christ drank the grape.
The love's on the mattress.
The heat's in the tools.
You may never find her
at this cyclic rate.
and the inverse correct--
This is what chromosomes
dealt were predestined.
Face in a pillow
almost forget.
Saint candles burning
straight down like a fuse.
Moans turn to whimpers
and back into moans.
Offer a towel, a cold glass of water.
They know not to call.
They know they've been used
led like white livestock
up three flights to slaughter.
It helps with the yearning
the passing of time.
She'll leave in the morning
with clothes from the floor.
It's hard to think twice
once giving the lines.
She came like a lady.
She'll leave a bit sore.
Fisherman's war paint
misanthrope's fuel
lush's reminder
that Christ drank the grape.
The love's on the mattress.
The heat's in the tools.
You may never find her
at this cyclic rate.
11.22.2011
(315)
I woke to bastard sunbeams
and the smell of 10 a.m.
There'd been a nightmare
of some nigger who tried
to steal my girl once.
The drool stains on my pillows
proved I'd told him how I felt.
Through the floor I heard
a man carve his day-old bird
to make a sandwich.
I'd spent the holiday alone.
My leftovers were internal.
There was a message on my phone
received at four in the morning--
when the good ones tend to come;
when the coming's all the same.
The area code was as baffling
as the words and punctuation.
An inquiry of the prefix
revealed a western New York number.
My past career of heartache
never spread into that region.
Another unknown psycho
closing in to make the kill.
I rubbed one out, did the dishes
went about my half-dressed business
until the missive piqued my interest
as the song remained the same.
"Who is this?" I asked
knowing there would be no answer.
These vague, clandestine messengers
never cough up their credentials.
I poured a second mug of jet fuel
though the grounds were in the mix.
Had to nuke it for a minute
since it cooled down fairly quickly
with the heat just barely running
to help save on the bills.
There's only one sucker
paying them now. It's equal parts
blood and money.
That's when it came again--
the same encrypted sentence.
This time I noticed a number
at the bottom, presumably a date:
*06*28*08.
I thought back to where I was then
and whom I was inside.
It held no relevance.
Didn't make much sense
as usual, though the message
as the good ones are
was tragically universal:
***LOVE IS LOYALTY!!!!
CAPS and symbols unembellished.
I dumped that cup of coffee
down the sink into the sewer.
The world had no mercy left
to divvy out today.
The sun's angle promised us that.
It was good to be inspired.
I'd have to lower the shades
creating my own fate
in the darkness
between bricks.
and the smell of 10 a.m.
There'd been a nightmare
of some nigger who tried
to steal my girl once.
The drool stains on my pillows
proved I'd told him how I felt.
Through the floor I heard
a man carve his day-old bird
to make a sandwich.
I'd spent the holiday alone.
My leftovers were internal.
There was a message on my phone
received at four in the morning--
when the good ones tend to come;
when the coming's all the same.
The area code was as baffling
as the words and punctuation.
An inquiry of the prefix
revealed a western New York number.
My past career of heartache
never spread into that region.
Another unknown psycho
closing in to make the kill.
I rubbed one out, did the dishes
went about my half-dressed business
until the missive piqued my interest
as the song remained the same.
"Who is this?" I asked
knowing there would be no answer.
These vague, clandestine messengers
never cough up their credentials.
I poured a second mug of jet fuel
though the grounds were in the mix.
Had to nuke it for a minute
since it cooled down fairly quickly
with the heat just barely running
to help save on the bills.
There's only one sucker
paying them now. It's equal parts
blood and money.
That's when it came again--
the same encrypted sentence.
This time I noticed a number
at the bottom, presumably a date:
*06*28*08.
I thought back to where I was then
and whom I was inside.
It held no relevance.
Didn't make much sense
as usual, though the message
as the good ones are
was tragically universal:
***LOVE IS LOYALTY!!!!
CAPS and symbols unembellished.
I dumped that cup of coffee
down the sink into the sewer.
The world had no mercy left
to divvy out today.
The sun's angle promised us that.
It was good to be inspired.
I'd have to lower the shades
creating my own fate
in the darkness
between bricks.
11.21.2011
Prom Baby Rain Cheque
My rooms are right
on Main Street.
They can come
maybe twice
if we're lucky
and I'm randy
but they can't stay
the night
and
they better swallow
the fact that
I've built walls
of copper tubing
lashed with hair
of buried queens
around the parts
that I was smart
to never give her
though my silence
was consent.
Chase, you lucky gambler
all your strikes paid off in rings.
I will wear your tux, and tucked.
I will spring for whiter teeth.
I will spare your friends and family
what would've been my gin-soaked speech.
Yours wants to share
her dark slice
of heaven.
Mine took the rugs
and corkscrew
when she left.
Convert.
Adapt.
Overcome.
What's three times a day
to the east
compared to begging
clouds for mercy?
There's not a better way
to squander three months'
worth of wages.
Is it after tax, or gross?
If it's real then it won't matter.
Your words were sound and poignant
though you know it's me to try.
on Main Street.
They can come
maybe twice
if we're lucky
and I'm randy
but they can't stay
the night
and
they better swallow
the fact that
I've built walls
of copper tubing
lashed with hair
of buried queens
around the parts
that I was smart
to never give her
though my silence
was consent.
Chase, you lucky gambler
all your strikes paid off in rings.
I will wear your tux, and tucked.
I will spring for whiter teeth.
I will spare your friends and family
what would've been my gin-soaked speech.
Yours wants to share
her dark slice
of heaven.
Mine took the rugs
and corkscrew
when she left.
Convert.
Adapt.
Overcome.
What's three times a day
to the east
compared to begging
clouds for mercy?
There's not a better way
to squander three months'
worth of wages.
Is it after tax, or gross?
If it's real then it won't matter.
Your words were sound and poignant
though you know it's me to try.
11.19.2011
Chaz and a Son's .38
An old friend
a true one
the kind you may
not see for years
but still remembers
what you look like
when you're laughing
from the gut
or when you struggled
with algebra and your first
case of the 'ache
plucked me from
my vault today:
a conjugal visit with life.
His brief tour of my apartment
ended down the stairwell.
"Still haven't kicked
the habit?" he asked
as I lit up, not quite sure
which one he meant.
"Only when I'm working
drinking, or single," I replied
not realizing all bases
were covered.
As we came upon his
jalopy he keyed his way
into the passenger door
for me, which I found odd
for many reasons
one of them being
that there was ever
a time without a clicker--
another throwback
to the era when we first met
thus making the illusion
of time travel stronger.
I rolled into the seat
noticing how clean
the light brown
carpets and upholstery
were for such an early model.
The interior was almost spotless
though rust had claimed the bumper
and...
I fumbled for the driver's side lock
but it was already too late.
He'd turned the key
a sad grin fighting its way
to the surface in the face
of our nostalgia.
"Oh no. You failed the test,"
he jokingly accused
fairly assuming that I'd catch
the movie reference.
"I know, I know," I apologized
relieved to be a part
of an inside sort of something
instead of the outcast of late.
He slid into the pilot's chair
and turned over the engine
still the same, but different
in such rare and craved proportions.
I refrained from using his nickname
too much. A man has a right
to his preference
of hat. A spade is a spade
is a friend who remembers
before reputation took over.
a true one
the kind you may
not see for years
but still remembers
what you look like
when you're laughing
from the gut
or when you struggled
with algebra and your first
case of the 'ache
plucked me from
my vault today:
a conjugal visit with life.
His brief tour of my apartment
ended down the stairwell.
"Still haven't kicked
the habit?" he asked
as I lit up, not quite sure
which one he meant.
"Only when I'm working
drinking, or single," I replied
not realizing all bases
were covered.
As we came upon his
jalopy he keyed his way
into the passenger door
for me, which I found odd
for many reasons
one of them being
that there was ever
a time without a clicker--
another throwback
to the era when we first met
thus making the illusion
of time travel stronger.
I rolled into the seat
noticing how clean
the light brown
carpets and upholstery
were for such an early model.
The interior was almost spotless
though rust had claimed the bumper
and...
I fumbled for the driver's side lock
but it was already too late.
He'd turned the key
a sad grin fighting its way
to the surface in the face
of our nostalgia.
"Oh no. You failed the test,"
he jokingly accused
fairly assuming that I'd catch
the movie reference.
"I know, I know," I apologized
relieved to be a part
of an inside sort of something
instead of the outcast of late.
He slid into the pilot's chair
and turned over the engine
still the same, but different
in such rare and craved proportions.
I refrained from using his nickname
too much. A man has a right
to his preference
of hat. A spade is a spade
is a friend who remembers
before reputation took over.
11.17.2011
Wasabi For the Dater's Soul
Maybe I should've taken
my own advice
and not shat where I ate
by eating where I live.
Maybe I shouldn't've walked there.
Maybe she smelled
the smoke on my breath.
Maybe I shouldn't've been myself.
Maybe she didn't like
that I wasn't shy
and ate all of the sushi
when she put her chopsticks
down for good.
Maybe it was that I loved the ginger
but didn't speak up
when the geisha came
and took it all away.
Maybe it was that her psych major
finally came in handy
though I didn't mention
my dad this time.
Maybe it was my one glass of wine.
Maybe the green tea ice cream
froze her perfect teeth
or the twelve-dollar tip
wasn't good enough.
Maybe it was that
I was full, it was late
and with work the next day
a ride home would've been nice--
so I asked, and was looked at
as crazy.
Maybe I am for thinking
that everyone believes to their
own detriment
and that people are generally
good in this world.
Maybe my peacoat
made me look like a rapist.
Maybe I am in a way
that is latent.
Maybe I'm better off knowing
that two hours of flowing
conversation does not equate
to a shred of trust.
Maybe I'll stick to coffee next time.
It's cheaper, and about what
these hooers deserve.
Maybe I'll go crawling back
to the place I know
that I don't belong.
Maybe it's instant karma.
Currently (re-)reading:
"Love Is a Dog From Hell" by Charles Bukowski.
my own advice
and not shat where I ate
by eating where I live.
Maybe I shouldn't've walked there.
Maybe she smelled
the smoke on my breath.
Maybe I shouldn't've been myself.
Maybe she didn't like
that I wasn't shy
and ate all of the sushi
when she put her chopsticks
down for good.
Maybe it was that I loved the ginger
but didn't speak up
when the geisha came
and took it all away.
Maybe it was that her psych major
finally came in handy
though I didn't mention
my dad this time.
Maybe it was my one glass of wine.
Maybe the green tea ice cream
froze her perfect teeth
or the twelve-dollar tip
wasn't good enough.
Maybe it was that
I was full, it was late
and with work the next day
a ride home would've been nice--
so I asked, and was looked at
as crazy.
Maybe I am for thinking
that everyone believes to their
own detriment
and that people are generally
good in this world.
Maybe my peacoat
made me look like a rapist.
Maybe I am in a way
that is latent.
Maybe I'm better off knowing
that two hours of flowing
conversation does not equate
to a shred of trust.
Maybe I'll stick to coffee next time.
It's cheaper, and about what
these hooers deserve.
Maybe I'll go crawling back
to the place I know
that I don't belong.
Maybe it's instant karma.
Currently (re-)reading:
"Love Is a Dog From Hell" by Charles Bukowski.
11.13.2011
Scrambled
When I woke
still shaken
by Jeremy's dream
drool marks on the pillow
to prove that it'd been
a real barn-burner
a bird chirped
in the otherwise silent
air conditioner
perched inside
my window.
There was
a faint sound
of scratching
like some twigs
upon some tin.
That friend had
sold me out
put me right back
into debt. Even in my
dreams my back's
a magnet for their knives.
I stood, dizzy from
last night's medicine
and told the world
what I thought of friends.
When I turned the
fan off later on
no song came from
the grill.
Thinking of this
brought on a rare hunger.
Without milk for coffee
or orange juice
to quench the salt
an ironic egg breakfast
was out of the question.
Sausage sans peppers
it was
and delicious.
still shaken
by Jeremy's dream
drool marks on the pillow
to prove that it'd been
a real barn-burner
a bird chirped
in the otherwise silent
air conditioner
perched inside
my window.
There was
a faint sound
of scratching
like some twigs
upon some tin.
That friend had
sold me out
put me right back
into debt. Even in my
dreams my back's
a magnet for their knives.
I stood, dizzy from
last night's medicine
and told the world
what I thought of friends.
When I turned the
fan off later on
no song came from
the grill.
Thinking of this
brought on a rare hunger.
Without milk for coffee
or orange juice
to quench the salt
an ironic egg breakfast
was out of the question.
Sausage sans peppers
it was
and delicious.
11.08.2011
She Was Fourteen Going On Forty in 1968
Somewhere in the Simon
a theme lost in the mix
a quatrain calls out
from between bookends
and my mother's quiet
croonings while she cooked
or cleaned or asked
if I had homework.
"Time it was, and what
a time it was
a time of innocence..."
where she'd longingly trail off
a son too young
to grasp her woes
lulled to peace
despite the split.
He gets it today, twenty
years later
and loves her
now and long ago
memories and photographs
thankfully not
all that's left
of her yet.
If he's as lucky
as he is blessed
the genes will pull through
'til at least ninety-six.
It's not Joe DiMaggio
for whom his lonely eyes
are looking.
a theme lost in the mix
a quatrain calls out
from between bookends
and my mother's quiet
croonings while she cooked
or cleaned or asked
if I had homework.
"Time it was, and what
a time it was
a time of innocence..."
where she'd longingly trail off
a son too young
to grasp her woes
lulled to peace
despite the split.
He gets it today, twenty
years later
and loves her
now and long ago
memories and photographs
thankfully not
all that's left
of her yet.
If he's as lucky
as he is blessed
the genes will pull through
'til at least ninety-six.
It's not Joe DiMaggio
for whom his lonely eyes
are looking.
11.06.2011
angio-
I used to have this nightmare
only it'd happen during the day
while walking on the wrong side
of the road or ordering an
Extra Value Meal
from some kid with fry-grease
acne. A non-descript assailant
would slice through the soft skin
of my forearms and rip out my veins
with a pair of pliers. It looked like
when you're pulling weeds from a garden
and the roots pop out of the dirt
in an intricate system that almost
demands your respect while destroying it
only this was no green thumb convenience:
this was real.
It played on a deep-rooted fear of mine
involving the circulatory system. Ever since
childhood the thought of things pumping
through tubes inside of me has turned
my stomach. Getting vaccinated never
bothered me, but once they tried
to take something out
to draw blood from those hoses I hated
to acknowledge
I'd turn a shade of green
uncommon to the living. The chapter
on arteries in ninth-grade biology
made my wrists go numb to the point where
I couldn't take notes from the overhead
projector. I still passed with flying colors.
I still learned to cope back then.
I used to have this nightmare
about the plumbing of my blood
being stripped of me in the most
gruesome manner, but now I'm
more afraid of never giving it away.
only it'd happen during the day
while walking on the wrong side
of the road or ordering an
Extra Value Meal
from some kid with fry-grease
acne. A non-descript assailant
would slice through the soft skin
of my forearms and rip out my veins
with a pair of pliers. It looked like
when you're pulling weeds from a garden
and the roots pop out of the dirt
in an intricate system that almost
demands your respect while destroying it
only this was no green thumb convenience:
this was real.
It played on a deep-rooted fear of mine
involving the circulatory system. Ever since
childhood the thought of things pumping
through tubes inside of me has turned
my stomach. Getting vaccinated never
bothered me, but once they tried
to take something out
to draw blood from those hoses I hated
to acknowledge
I'd turn a shade of green
uncommon to the living. The chapter
on arteries in ninth-grade biology
made my wrists go numb to the point where
I couldn't take notes from the overhead
projector. I still passed with flying colors.
I still learned to cope back then.
I used to have this nightmare
about the plumbing of my blood
being stripped of me in the most
gruesome manner, but now I'm
more afraid of never giving it away.
11.02.2011
What Happens in the Mekong Delta Doesn't Necessarily Stay There
We finish each other's
sentences to the point
of questionable genetics.
It's odd to have such
a familiar relationship
with a man double my age
whom I've only known
for five months.
Drive around in a van
with someone for long enough
and you start to think the
same things, like that
you'd rather have the headache
of the guy who wakes up to
that hot mess in the car
in the passing lane
any day of the week
and twice on Sundays
than play the hands
we've been dealt.
We joke about our fortune
in finding one another
somewhere along the trainwreck.
That latter part, the state of the union
makes me think I'm right
when I tell him we're both
being punished for past lives.
He was in the Seventies service, jokes
about commando operations
in the jungles of Southeast Asia.
Classified, of course.
I toss out a flippant remark about
the likelihood that I was once in
his squad, the one that must've
burned a Gook village a la "Platoon".
My mind wanders as I lay in sour sheets.
I picture myself manning the 60
hanging from the side door of the Huey
hot brass shell casings and ammo belt links
raining down onto the rice paddy below.
The Stones' "Gimme Shelter" plays in
the background as a soundtrack requirement.
Little black-pajama'ed ants in pointy straw hats
scramble for their lives, praying to their rotund
cross-legged god that the napalm airstrike
doesn't come and torch their crops.
He, of course, only smiles wider
that glutton for pointless suffering.
My partner in crime taps my shoulder
enthusiastically and asks to swap spots.
I finish my run of 7.62, get up
from the gunner's seat, and pass him
my flak jacket to sit on in case an AK-47 round
pierces the fuselage and catches him
in the keister. Just as he rips back the bolt handle
and starts to give some yellowfolk lead poisoning
a bullet tears through the belly of the chopper
and severs my femoral artery. The blood sprays
the cabin in regular spurts through the spaces
between my fingers as I make a futile attempt
to stop the bleeding. That younger version
of my buddy lets the machinegun pivot forward
on its mount, its barrel smoking and smelling of sulphur
in order to reach over and light my last Marlboro
procured from the pack strapped to my helmet.
"See ya on the next tour, Shakespeah,"
he croons in that soupy Bronx inflection
which I've carried back upstate. We both know
it's a lie, but it's one that is expected.
The hum of the rotors lulls me into
unconsciousness as I bleed out onto
the diamond-plate floor of the helicopter
and pass into the dark.
Fast-forward forty years and I'm next to
that same wingman. He's older now, has some
more scars, but the eyes remain the same
as they always do in the Great Ones.
"Get a loada dis numba," he says
as he pilots his van to my left, our new
unsuspecting victims not so physically harmed.
The whir of the battered highway
rumbles underfoot to the tune
of ten-thousand regrets
none of them being
that I've met this denim-collared savior.
"Too rich for my blood," I honestly confess
before downing what's left of my coffee.
War, like plumbing, is a hell of a humbler
and they're both about the guy
next to you in the trench.
sentences to the point
of questionable genetics.
It's odd to have such
a familiar relationship
with a man double my age
whom I've only known
for five months.
Drive around in a van
with someone for long enough
and you start to think the
same things, like that
you'd rather have the headache
of the guy who wakes up to
that hot mess in the car
in the passing lane
any day of the week
and twice on Sundays
than play the hands
we've been dealt.
We joke about our fortune
in finding one another
somewhere along the trainwreck.
That latter part, the state of the union
makes me think I'm right
when I tell him we're both
being punished for past lives.
He was in the Seventies service, jokes
about commando operations
in the jungles of Southeast Asia.
Classified, of course.
I toss out a flippant remark about
the likelihood that I was once in
his squad, the one that must've
burned a Gook village a la "Platoon".
My mind wanders as I lay in sour sheets.
I picture myself manning the 60
hanging from the side door of the Huey
hot brass shell casings and ammo belt links
raining down onto the rice paddy below.
The Stones' "Gimme Shelter" plays in
the background as a soundtrack requirement.
Little black-pajama'ed ants in pointy straw hats
scramble for their lives, praying to their rotund
cross-legged god that the napalm airstrike
doesn't come and torch their crops.
He, of course, only smiles wider
that glutton for pointless suffering.
My partner in crime taps my shoulder
enthusiastically and asks to swap spots.
I finish my run of 7.62, get up
from the gunner's seat, and pass him
my flak jacket to sit on in case an AK-47 round
pierces the fuselage and catches him
in the keister. Just as he rips back the bolt handle
and starts to give some yellowfolk lead poisoning
a bullet tears through the belly of the chopper
and severs my femoral artery. The blood sprays
the cabin in regular spurts through the spaces
between my fingers as I make a futile attempt
to stop the bleeding. That younger version
of my buddy lets the machinegun pivot forward
on its mount, its barrel smoking and smelling of sulphur
in order to reach over and light my last Marlboro
procured from the pack strapped to my helmet.
"See ya on the next tour, Shakespeah,"
he croons in that soupy Bronx inflection
which I've carried back upstate. We both know
it's a lie, but it's one that is expected.
The hum of the rotors lulls me into
unconsciousness as I bleed out onto
the diamond-plate floor of the helicopter
and pass into the dark.
Fast-forward forty years and I'm next to
that same wingman. He's older now, has some
more scars, but the eyes remain the same
as they always do in the Great Ones.
"Get a loada dis numba," he says
as he pilots his van to my left, our new
unsuspecting victims not so physically harmed.
The whir of the battered highway
rumbles underfoot to the tune
of ten-thousand regrets
none of them being
that I've met this denim-collared savior.
"Too rich for my blood," I honestly confess
before downing what's left of my coffee.
War, like plumbing, is a hell of a humbler
and they're both about the guy
next to you in the trench.
10.30.2011
For Rocco, Who May Not Get My All Tomorrow As a Direct Result
By the third flight of steps
my feet are cinderblocks.
It's not the friendly load of laundry that's
making it hard to climb any farther.
I don't want to swing that door
open for the first time since
she's taken the rest of her things.
When I do it hits me like
aforementioned masonry.
A good wail in the corner
where her dresser used to be
warrants a call to mom
who in turn blames
my father and the abandonment
issues he's so Christianly left in my lap.
We all have our crosses.
Some drag them too far.
When the pep talk's over
I strip for comfort's sake
and see what looks different
around the apartment. She spared me
some silverware. Stole the rugs.
Left me her two plants; company
I guess. Took both the frying pans.
So much for eggs over-easy this week.
It all seemed so trivial and static before.
Now my new home's a pile of objects
a few of them missing, in need of
replacements. More items for the
Things To Do List.
Great.
Next up: a shower.
There too are voids.
There's an obvious spot where
that bottle of facewash
which neither of us liked due to its
bug repellant odor once sat.
Her razor remains; disposable, like time.
I crank the shower handle as far to the left
as my skin can take it-- not scalding
but damn near close: how she used
to like it once I got out to dry myself.
My body slowly adapts to the temperature
and feels purified by heat. If I can't control
what I'm feeling over the loss of
two-and-a-half, on-and-off years
then at least I can swing that lever
and determine how much steam
is pumped into the room, how hard
the nerves in my skin cells tingle.
What's that Hump said to Sam in
the Casa? "If she can take it, I can take it,"?
The lathering's left to the bare essentials
since it's late enough and Monday's
an early rise. I rinse and blow my nose
down the drain. Part of me's miffed
that my brain doesn't follow.
When I step out
and wipe the fog from the mirror
it's hard to avoid a red-faced laugh.
Beneath the permanent wool sweater
afflicting my awkward form
there hides a boiled lobster
too stubborn and desperate
to turn down the heat.
But really, I laughed.
I have to.
My plants need carbon dioxide.
my feet are cinderblocks.
It's not the friendly load of laundry that's
making it hard to climb any farther.
I don't want to swing that door
open for the first time since
she's taken the rest of her things.
When I do it hits me like
aforementioned masonry.
A good wail in the corner
where her dresser used to be
warrants a call to mom
who in turn blames
my father and the abandonment
issues he's so Christianly left in my lap.
We all have our crosses.
Some drag them too far.
When the pep talk's over
I strip for comfort's sake
and see what looks different
around the apartment. She spared me
some silverware. Stole the rugs.
Left me her two plants; company
I guess. Took both the frying pans.
So much for eggs over-easy this week.
It all seemed so trivial and static before.
Now my new home's a pile of objects
a few of them missing, in need of
replacements. More items for the
Things To Do List.
Great.
Next up: a shower.
There too are voids.
There's an obvious spot where
that bottle of facewash
which neither of us liked due to its
bug repellant odor once sat.
Her razor remains; disposable, like time.
I crank the shower handle as far to the left
as my skin can take it-- not scalding
but damn near close: how she used
to like it once I got out to dry myself.
My body slowly adapts to the temperature
and feels purified by heat. If I can't control
what I'm feeling over the loss of
two-and-a-half, on-and-off years
then at least I can swing that lever
and determine how much steam
is pumped into the room, how hard
the nerves in my skin cells tingle.
What's that Hump said to Sam in
the Casa? "If she can take it, I can take it,"?
The lathering's left to the bare essentials
since it's late enough and Monday's
an early rise. I rinse and blow my nose
down the drain. Part of me's miffed
that my brain doesn't follow.
When I step out
and wipe the fog from the mirror
it's hard to avoid a red-faced laugh.
Beneath the permanent wool sweater
afflicting my awkward form
there hides a boiled lobster
too stubborn and desperate
to turn down the heat.
But really, I laughed.
I have to.
My plants need carbon dioxide.
10.29.2011
Premature Hot Coke Hoe
They whine that the weather
has ruined their costumes--
so many minutes or dimes
sacrificed--
while failing to face
that the three sixty-four
are spent with fraudulent fronts
just the same.
Don't get me wrong.
I'm not so above it.
If there was a slim chance
in Hell it's now gone.
The lights flicker briefly
and taunt with a sentence
but the worst of this deal
requires no juice.
Can't even drink
on these antibiotics.
Don't want to smoke
with this hack in my lungs.
Almost put pants on
to let in a stranger
but some saintly neighbor
beat me to the punch.
It's not that it's messy
or messed up my plans.
It's not that the holiday
bar scene is curbed.
A blizzard is meant
for rib-sticking meals
and lovemaking 'til
the lovelies are sore.
has ruined their costumes--
so many minutes or dimes
sacrificed--
while failing to face
that the three sixty-four
are spent with fraudulent fronts
just the same.
Don't get me wrong.
I'm not so above it.
If there was a slim chance
in Hell it's now gone.
The lights flicker briefly
and taunt with a sentence
but the worst of this deal
requires no juice.
Can't even drink
on these antibiotics.
Don't want to smoke
with this hack in my lungs.
Almost put pants on
to let in a stranger
but some saintly neighbor
beat me to the punch.
It's not that it's messy
or messed up my plans.
It's not that the holiday
bar scene is curbed.
A blizzard is meant
for rib-sticking meals
and lovemaking 'til
the lovelies are sore.
The Women Wore Pink Sweaters
One of my new fathers died
in my sleep last night.
When his wife answered the phone
there was silence, then a yelp.
They hadn't seen or heard from him
in days, assumed the worst.
I was somehow teleported
to his basement. Women mourned.
My eyes burned red, I felt betrayed--
a jealous God again.
Sometime in the tangent
the old man reappeared.
He was tired, hair all mustered
in his camo and his boots.
"I was hunting, lost my way,"
his explanation came ashamed.
I threw my arms around him
smelled the copper in his blood.
The top sheet's on the floor now
from my writhing, dreaming grief.
There'll be a time where waking
won't save the day again
if the hunter doesn't find
his way back to the hearth.
Every person's got a shelf life.
All that carbon's got to give.
They're a blessing, these new mentors
but they come with loss inherent.
in my sleep last night.
When his wife answered the phone
there was silence, then a yelp.
They hadn't seen or heard from him
in days, assumed the worst.
I was somehow teleported
to his basement. Women mourned.
My eyes burned red, I felt betrayed--
a jealous God again.
Sometime in the tangent
the old man reappeared.
He was tired, hair all mustered
in his camo and his boots.
"I was hunting, lost my way,"
his explanation came ashamed.
I threw my arms around him
smelled the copper in his blood.
The top sheet's on the floor now
from my writhing, dreaming grief.
There'll be a time where waking
won't save the day again
if the hunter doesn't find
his way back to the hearth.
Every person's got a shelf life.
All that carbon's got to give.
They're a blessing, these new mentors
but they come with loss inherent.
10.27.2011
What Would the Lizard King Say Of Your Bass
If faces come out of the rain when you're strange then one can assume it gets worse with the snow. Maybe the bodies follow. The weather's as unpredictable as the events of these last several weeks. What overpaid, televised guestimators refer to as a "wintry mix" falls tonight a few calendar days before Halloween. The Doors play on my stomach-perched laptop as I lay in bed lazily since the internet connection's down and my CDs are in the truck I can barely afford. Maybe the precipitation will wash the birdshit from its otherwise clean exterior. It took me a week, but the dishes have been conquered and vanquished from the sink. I used to be a stickler for timely, efficient housekeeping. Now that I'm the only witness to my sinful filth it's hard to motivate myself to stay on top of anything other than my bed. Even that's not truly mine; she made me leave my mattress at the old place when we moved here a few months ago. Women seem wicked when you're unwanted; beds are taken for granted until they're repossessed. Now I'm wondering if she'll take this one, hers, when she comes with her mother on Sunday to get the rest of her things. The boxspring and frame are mine. Perhaps some pine boughs will cap them nicely; a bit of a rustic touch to contradict the industrial look of the brick and exposed pipes. How ironic, and therefore hip. That's the name of the game in this trendy town crawling with trust-fund kids. Faces look ugly whether you're alone or in groups. Angsty children piss in the streets of the nation's major cities for the sake of having a cause, ignoring the cue from uninvolved local citizens and small business owners that their welcome's been worn out and it may be time for a different tactic, and the Man's to blame again for speaking up in part for another portion of that already redundant percentage which I won't cite here. Streets may be uneven when you're down, but it's hard to notice through the teargas. The home movies don't lie; neither does the internet. We're headed for revolution with no leaders in sight other than the funnier talking heads who impart their biased knowledge to the Text Message Generation via sarcastic satire. All of this, like snowfall in October, we're expected to accept. Jim Morrison's right: Strange days have found us and no one remembers your name.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Remembered" by John Updike.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Remembered" by John Updike.
10.25.2011
Censored Ex Hell
They can't help it.
It's in the beast's nature.
It's the part of the fissure
that others don't see.
Some of them take a book or two
but I only read them once anyway
maybe go back and skim where
I've highlighted a few years later
rekindling love for a man long gone.
A titled spine staring at me
from one of my sixteen shelves
won't break me; not as of now.
They're lost in the mix.
Most of them ruin a few bands
for awhile. The songs that once
promised one thing suddenly
renege on the arrangement.
You give them time, you call
a good friend or drinking body
and blast those tunes
over cocktails to reclaim them
when you're ready.
It's a surefire way that's
always proved faithful.
But this one got me good.
She took an act of hygiene.
Whenever I shave now
that one tough time when
I'm forced to look in a mirror
for more than twenty seconds
I think of how she'd always want
to do it for me, would scold me
jokingly if I pruned without her aid.
There was trust there once
with a blade to my neck.
How does one get that back?
How do I pick up that razor again?
The same as anything else, I guess:
alone.
I'm finally getting down
to my fighting weight now
but there's no one in the ring
left to notice. And a truth
that comes in this late-night
confession is I nick with
my Bic just the same.
It's in the beast's nature.
It's the part of the fissure
that others don't see.
Some of them take a book or two
but I only read them once anyway
maybe go back and skim where
I've highlighted a few years later
rekindling love for a man long gone.
A titled spine staring at me
from one of my sixteen shelves
won't break me; not as of now.
They're lost in the mix.
Most of them ruin a few bands
for awhile. The songs that once
promised one thing suddenly
renege on the arrangement.
You give them time, you call
a good friend or drinking body
and blast those tunes
over cocktails to reclaim them
when you're ready.
It's a surefire way that's
always proved faithful.
But this one got me good.
She took an act of hygiene.
Whenever I shave now
that one tough time when
I'm forced to look in a mirror
for more than twenty seconds
I think of how she'd always want
to do it for me, would scold me
jokingly if I pruned without her aid.
There was trust there once
with a blade to my neck.
How does one get that back?
How do I pick up that razor again?
The same as anything else, I guess:
alone.
I'm finally getting down
to my fighting weight now
but there's no one in the ring
left to notice. And a truth
that comes in this late-night
confession is I nick with
my Bic just the same.
10.23.2011
The Laziest Faker East of the Hudson
I lay against an ill-advised Sunday
half-glow nap. Woke at noon, lounged around
beat by almost four. Dishes are piled--
a week's worth at least. There's an unopened
package screaming for a knife that
I can't muster the muscle to stab.
I know what it is: a suitcase for a trip
I won't be taking. It can wait.
It can all wait
with the sleeping bag in storage.
There are times I miss the strangest things
like the hot fermenting garbage smell
of the subway in July. This is one of them.
Sleep has no mercy, it won't come so soon.
The leaves on the trees like lightbulbs
to smash. People enjoy what could be
the last weekend where T-shirts aren't such
a rebellious decision. Strangers savor their lives
or pretend to. I roll onto my stomach
closing my eyes harder like a child scared
to death, though this kid's reconsidered.
A football announcer yells through the floor.
I can almost make out the words, it's disturbing.
What have the neighbors heard through
their ceiling and how have I not heard their TV before?
The sound's somewhat soothing, reminds me of
weekends when I'd fall asleep on my father's stiff couch.
It's probably there, blessed and annointed, praying
for an overdue trip to the dump.
The volume gets louder, perks up my ears. There's
no way to drift off with this kind of ruckus. I throw off
the top sheet, consider my options, succumb to
the urge, choke up on the bat.
The romance is clipped by a new sound
I notice, a generous portion of fresh humble pie.
There through the First Downs and Holdings
below me come whimpers and moans
from the cute pigtailed neighbor. The milquetoast
she lives with is telling her twice.
I hear, but can't listen.
I know, but don't care.
I pull up my shorts and go take a leak.
If you prick me, my friend, I promise to bleed.
The Hudson was once my personal moat
though now I feel like a shunned hot potato.
There are times, there are places
for starches like me.
A call from the union could change my
demeanor. It's not looking hopeful.
It's Third Down and Twelve.
The bottle of Sauvignon Blanc
being chilled now should go to the couple
who earned it downstairs.
It's ripe and it's raw and it's rife with
transgressions. It could always be worse.
There's still some shaft left.
half-glow nap. Woke at noon, lounged around
beat by almost four. Dishes are piled--
a week's worth at least. There's an unopened
package screaming for a knife that
I can't muster the muscle to stab.
I know what it is: a suitcase for a trip
I won't be taking. It can wait.
It can all wait
with the sleeping bag in storage.
There are times I miss the strangest things
like the hot fermenting garbage smell
of the subway in July. This is one of them.
Sleep has no mercy, it won't come so soon.
The leaves on the trees like lightbulbs
to smash. People enjoy what could be
the last weekend where T-shirts aren't such
a rebellious decision. Strangers savor their lives
or pretend to. I roll onto my stomach
closing my eyes harder like a child scared
to death, though this kid's reconsidered.
A football announcer yells through the floor.
I can almost make out the words, it's disturbing.
What have the neighbors heard through
their ceiling and how have I not heard their TV before?
The sound's somewhat soothing, reminds me of
weekends when I'd fall asleep on my father's stiff couch.
It's probably there, blessed and annointed, praying
for an overdue trip to the dump.
The volume gets louder, perks up my ears. There's
no way to drift off with this kind of ruckus. I throw off
the top sheet, consider my options, succumb to
the urge, choke up on the bat.
The romance is clipped by a new sound
I notice, a generous portion of fresh humble pie.
There through the First Downs and Holdings
below me come whimpers and moans
from the cute pigtailed neighbor. The milquetoast
she lives with is telling her twice.
I hear, but can't listen.
I know, but don't care.
I pull up my shorts and go take a leak.
If you prick me, my friend, I promise to bleed.
The Hudson was once my personal moat
though now I feel like a shunned hot potato.
There are times, there are places
for starches like me.
A call from the union could change my
demeanor. It's not looking hopeful.
It's Third Down and Twelve.
The bottle of Sauvignon Blanc
being chilled now should go to the couple
who earned it downstairs.
It's ripe and it's raw and it's rife with
transgressions. It could always be worse.
There's still some shaft left.
10.21.2011
No Way To Waste a Friday Night
The whirlwind swings by
to pick up some things
once her train's dropped
her off after work.
"Are you home?"
comes through crackling.
"Yeah," I reply
not sure if it's a lie or not.
"I'll be up in a minute."
Great. I'll still be down.
She keeps her shoes on
which is fine
since I haven't swept
since she's been gone;
asks to use the toilet.
I apologize in my mind
'cause my friends had bad aim
the other night
and I've found it hard
to get out of bed to eat
let alone clean
unless somebody's paying me.
Through the bathroom door
I can almost see her
searching for hairs
too long and light
to be mine.
She won't find them.
The sound of the flush
comes and the door
unveils light upon
my dark kitchen, a stage
perfectly set for the show.
Rotting fruit and vegetables
scream for mercy in the form
of a trash can from
the hanging baskets
that took so long for us to find.
She frowns. She doesn't fight it
as well as I do.
"Take some food with you,"
I plead, not wanting it to spoil.
Her hand pulls the fridge door open
and she inspects with minor distrust.
Sees the beer, probably wonders
who's been over since I'm in
a whiskey mood these days.
"You know there's a whole loaf of bread
down here," she says, rifling through
the misused crisper.
"Most of my grain's been distilled
as of late," I beam through crooked teeth.
She still can't find the humor.
That's the rub; the difference.
I'll joke all the way to the gallows.
She'll scowl all the way to the morgue.
Whatever she needed
seems inconsequential.
A few arbitrary items are tossed
into her big soccer mom bag
that'll probably never be true anymore
since that was my dream, not hers.
I used to help her put on her coat
after the check had been paid.
She taught me how to do that
without fumbling so much.
The urge is gone now
as she slinks into her peacoat.
This farewell will be as awkward
as a catcall at a funeral.
I'm right at a time
when I'd rather be wrong again.
By the time I reach the door
she's already at the stairs.
I stand there, three-quarters naked
and tell her. I have to.
It stops her in her tracks
although I'm no Bogart
and there ain't a plane to catch.
She turns and looks, bewildered
like that famous blurry photo
of Bigfoot stumbling through the creekbed.
"Don't," she spits, her bag seeming heavy.
But I do, and I will
because it's the truth.
If it wasn't I wouldn't be letting her go.
Sometimes that's what's needed
when the shuffle's been rigged.
We were doomed from the start, Kid.
Here's lookin' at you
from a distance
safe enough to wonder
what they would've looked like.
to pick up some things
once her train's dropped
her off after work.
"Are you home?"
comes through crackling.
"Yeah," I reply
not sure if it's a lie or not.
"I'll be up in a minute."
Great. I'll still be down.
She keeps her shoes on
which is fine
since I haven't swept
since she's been gone;
asks to use the toilet.
I apologize in my mind
'cause my friends had bad aim
the other night
and I've found it hard
to get out of bed to eat
let alone clean
unless somebody's paying me.
Through the bathroom door
I can almost see her
searching for hairs
too long and light
to be mine.
She won't find them.
The sound of the flush
comes and the door
unveils light upon
my dark kitchen, a stage
perfectly set for the show.
Rotting fruit and vegetables
scream for mercy in the form
of a trash can from
the hanging baskets
that took so long for us to find.
She frowns. She doesn't fight it
as well as I do.
"Take some food with you,"
I plead, not wanting it to spoil.
Her hand pulls the fridge door open
and she inspects with minor distrust.
Sees the beer, probably wonders
who's been over since I'm in
a whiskey mood these days.
"You know there's a whole loaf of bread
down here," she says, rifling through
the misused crisper.
"Most of my grain's been distilled
as of late," I beam through crooked teeth.
She still can't find the humor.
That's the rub; the difference.
I'll joke all the way to the gallows.
She'll scowl all the way to the morgue.
Whatever she needed
seems inconsequential.
A few arbitrary items are tossed
into her big soccer mom bag
that'll probably never be true anymore
since that was my dream, not hers.
I used to help her put on her coat
after the check had been paid.
She taught me how to do that
without fumbling so much.
The urge is gone now
as she slinks into her peacoat.
This farewell will be as awkward
as a catcall at a funeral.
I'm right at a time
when I'd rather be wrong again.
By the time I reach the door
she's already at the stairs.
I stand there, three-quarters naked
and tell her. I have to.
It stops her in her tracks
although I'm no Bogart
and there ain't a plane to catch.
She turns and looks, bewildered
like that famous blurry photo
of Bigfoot stumbling through the creekbed.
"Don't," she spits, her bag seeming heavy.
But I do, and I will
because it's the truth.
If it wasn't I wouldn't be letting her go.
Sometimes that's what's needed
when the shuffle's been rigged.
We were doomed from the start, Kid.
Here's lookin' at you
from a distance
safe enough to wonder
what they would've looked like.
10.18.2011
Cheating Salmonella
The morning rain had drawn them out--
Betrayed by Mother Nature.
A few flattened shells lay scattered
on the two-lane highway which
cuts through Orange Lake
while I sped from one task to the next.
There towards the end of the gauntlet
I saw an intact one in the shoulder.
It's a rule of mine to stop and move them.
If not, the guilt and wondering
tail me through the day.
Did it make it?
The guardrails left no room to park
so I pulled over at the cross-street.
A fifty-yard hike against the grain
of traffic and I was upon the painted
reptile. Its head hung low against
asphalt, its tail turned to one eternal side
all of its claws descended into road dust.
I stood and stared at the crack
running down the back of its shell--
a near miss, but barely enough
to end its stubborn road-crossing life.
I was always too late to save them.
The walk back to my truck
was consoled by a Marlboro.
If there was a time to curse
the odds that day
it was then
it was there in that moment.
All too often What's Right
plays second fiddle
to What Shall Be.
We suck it up
or we don't;
we stop or we keep driving;
but those turtles there on 52
are coming either way.
Betrayed by Mother Nature.
A few flattened shells lay scattered
on the two-lane highway which
cuts through Orange Lake
while I sped from one task to the next.
There towards the end of the gauntlet
I saw an intact one in the shoulder.
It's a rule of mine to stop and move them.
If not, the guilt and wondering
tail me through the day.
Did it make it?
The guardrails left no room to park
so I pulled over at the cross-street.
A fifty-yard hike against the grain
of traffic and I was upon the painted
reptile. Its head hung low against
asphalt, its tail turned to one eternal side
all of its claws descended into road dust.
I stood and stared at the crack
running down the back of its shell--
a near miss, but barely enough
to end its stubborn road-crossing life.
I was always too late to save them.
The walk back to my truck
was consoled by a Marlboro.
If there was a time to curse
the odds that day
it was then
it was there in that moment.
All too often What's Right
plays second fiddle
to What Shall Be.
We suck it up
or we don't;
we stop or we keep driving;
but those turtles there on 52
are coming either way.
Lefty Bats Righty (and Still Gets On Base)
There's this wreck
I've slept with
a handful of times
over the weaving course
of the last eight years.
The sleeping was never
as good as the part
that came
before it
partially because
I turned and tossed
with one foot out the door
since sticking around
would make too much sense.
This last bout with the starving
lasso artist was almost
too hard to watch
like a naked rodeo clown.
She asked if she should move
or not, if I'd take her in
like a puppy.
A bit of an out-of-body
experience it was--
Is this what it looks like
when someone's hard up
for a godsend to leave their sheets
smelling differently?
Pathetic little pissants we are
made in His image or not.
I know where she is tonight
and I know where she'll be tomorrow
and more importantly I know
that my distant knowledge will be
the extent of it. That's not to say
she isn't a catch; to most
men she would be, but I've been
blessed between the temples
with discernment as harsh as my tongue
and it tells me I'd be asking
for trouble yet again
redeeming qualities be damned.
She's one of those girls
who's just barely pretty.
One minor change
would leave her bereft
I'd venture to say
irreversibly flawed.
Maybe then I could love her.
Until then she's a number.
Somewhere along the way
I lost count, and somehow
became a plumber.
I've slept with
a handful of times
over the weaving course
of the last eight years.
The sleeping was never
as good as the part
that came
before it
partially because
I turned and tossed
with one foot out the door
since sticking around
would make too much sense.
This last bout with the starving
lasso artist was almost
too hard to watch
like a naked rodeo clown.
She asked if she should move
or not, if I'd take her in
like a puppy.
A bit of an out-of-body
experience it was--
Is this what it looks like
when someone's hard up
for a godsend to leave their sheets
smelling differently?
Pathetic little pissants we are
made in His image or not.
I know where she is tonight
and I know where she'll be tomorrow
and more importantly I know
that my distant knowledge will be
the extent of it. That's not to say
she isn't a catch; to most
men she would be, but I've been
blessed between the temples
with discernment as harsh as my tongue
and it tells me I'd be asking
for trouble yet again
redeeming qualities be damned.
She's one of those girls
who's just barely pretty.
One minor change
would leave her bereft
I'd venture to say
irreversibly flawed.
Maybe then I could love her.
Until then she's a number.
Somewhere along the way
I lost count, and somehow
became a plumber.
10.13.2011
With a Little Help From My Friends
The sequins caught my half-drunk eye, pulling my head ninety degrees just in time to see her slip into the hallway. She'd beaten me to the punch in getting to the bathroom. It wasn't the first time I'd been bested by that woman; regrettably so, it wouldn't be the last. There was another lavatory in the apartment, surprisingly, but it had a door on two walls, neither of which locked. One could not be too careful in such matters, especially at a party with heavy-handed Irish folks pouring up the cocktails. I decided to wait for the safer option in the rear of the apartment. She couldn't be that long in there, or so I thought.
When she finally returned to the festive chaos high above Eighty-Second Street I placed my vodka tonic on the nearest coaster I could find and made my way for the coveted powder room. She must've reapplied her fragrance while in there. The scent hit me before I even turned the knob. It was winter, I remember, because I'm wearing my only sweater in the photos from that night. It was winter, but the small window in that restroom was open when I entered, a crisp Big Apple breeze running down the brick and in above the toilet. I was about to close it when I realized why it'd been opened. That faintly familiar skunk smell crept up my nostrils through the mask of fresh perfume like an out of place dealer at a grade school talent show. Was it really that necessary to indulge at this event? My mind's eye shot to my tumbler in the living room and I wished I hadn't left it so I could take a swig. Perhaps I was premature in judging her need to party to that extent. We all have our vices; some are simply more legal than others. I reached up, closed the window, and drained what my liver didn't soak up to escape.
There was a tinge of recognition when our eyes met over hors d'oeuvres. She saw the latent shame in my face, but her wrinkles caked with make-up lended no apology. Instead she gave a wink as she sipped her pinot grigio, whether or not she'd meant to, whether or not it really happened or my vodka was playing its game again. We carried on with pleasantries and feigned a pure existence. When the night came crashing down we went our separate ways: she, a waiting train; me, a stroll down Amsterdam. In a city where nothing's free we'd both paid our price and then some. I slept next to a lousy poem and woke to my sweater folded neatly on the back of the recliner. There's a reason why some things are saved for once or twice a year. Any more than that and we'd go bursting at the seams.
When she finally returned to the festive chaos high above Eighty-Second Street I placed my vodka tonic on the nearest coaster I could find and made my way for the coveted powder room. She must've reapplied her fragrance while in there. The scent hit me before I even turned the knob. It was winter, I remember, because I'm wearing my only sweater in the photos from that night. It was winter, but the small window in that restroom was open when I entered, a crisp Big Apple breeze running down the brick and in above the toilet. I was about to close it when I realized why it'd been opened. That faintly familiar skunk smell crept up my nostrils through the mask of fresh perfume like an out of place dealer at a grade school talent show. Was it really that necessary to indulge at this event? My mind's eye shot to my tumbler in the living room and I wished I hadn't left it so I could take a swig. Perhaps I was premature in judging her need to party to that extent. We all have our vices; some are simply more legal than others. I reached up, closed the window, and drained what my liver didn't soak up to escape.
There was a tinge of recognition when our eyes met over hors d'oeuvres. She saw the latent shame in my face, but her wrinkles caked with make-up lended no apology. Instead she gave a wink as she sipped her pinot grigio, whether or not she'd meant to, whether or not it really happened or my vodka was playing its game again. We carried on with pleasantries and feigned a pure existence. When the night came crashing down we went our separate ways: she, a waiting train; me, a stroll down Amsterdam. In a city where nothing's free we'd both paid our price and then some. I slept next to a lousy poem and woke to my sweater folded neatly on the back of the recliner. There's a reason why some things are saved for once or twice a year. Any more than that and we'd go bursting at the seams.
Inspired By a Bumper Sticker and Another Refugee
So it seems that every second
slut that runs away
these days
male or female
or whore on a stage
who happens to be
packing for the City
sings of Astoria
like it'll save
their sorry souls.
What's there
so great to soothe them
but the warm-eyed
Greeks of Queens?
So close, in terms of time
to those curried Jackson Heights
where the dot-heads run around
adding arms and tusks to God
while us cowboys strip more
of His power every day.
I think it's more the sound
as it rolls off fattened tongues--
the syllables of promise
like parents in the pews
lying to young ears
meek enough to fear
an eternity sans water
like a week with no TV.
It's there in the road
in front of you, children.
It's every time that you obey
the daily curse of your alarm.
Astoria will get on
without your dreams
to crowd it.
You don't pronounce the 'gyro'
like the locals anyway.
And I, for one, am not
for rollicking fake times.
Yes, I have a truck.
No, won't help you move.
slut that runs away
these days
male or female
or whore on a stage
who happens to be
packing for the City
sings of Astoria
like it'll save
their sorry souls.
What's there
so great to soothe them
but the warm-eyed
Greeks of Queens?
So close, in terms of time
to those curried Jackson Heights
where the dot-heads run around
adding arms and tusks to God
while us cowboys strip more
of His power every day.
I think it's more the sound
as it rolls off fattened tongues--
the syllables of promise
like parents in the pews
lying to young ears
meek enough to fear
an eternity sans water
like a week with no TV.
It's there in the road
in front of you, children.
It's every time that you obey
the daily curse of your alarm.
Astoria will get on
without your dreams
to crowd it.
You don't pronounce the 'gyro'
like the locals anyway.
And I, for one, am not
for rollicking fake times.
Yes, I have a truck.
No, won't help you move.
10.10.2011
Confessions of a Modern Day Ahab
I have a too-nice apartment
on Main Street in a hip town
that I can barely afford
now that I've fired her.
I have a trade that'd make me
a hell of a buck if only
the economy was better
and there was enough work
to go around.
I have friends
whom I can throw
farther than I can trust.
I have a lot of nights in bed.
I have a father twelve miles away
who denies my existence
despite my desperate letters
and thirst to break the curse.
I have an addictive personality
that gets me in just enough trouble
to make me feel alive
with its consequences.
I have a penchant for drinking
alone at home or in crowds
and swear the bottle off
at least thrice per week.
I have a smoker's cough
that'll undeniably turn
to cancer one day or another.
I walk around with a gun
and act like it'll save me.
I'm a grower, not a shower.
I have an ex who finally realizes
that despite my faults
I was right.
I have a lot of exes
in various boats
and mental albums.
Most of it upstairs is skewed
so I can paint it over.
I fall in love with random
strangers in public
multiple times a week
with the excuse
that I have a sixth sense
for beauty.
I'm terrible at sleeping alone.
I can drink you under the table
and out of the closet.
I'll probably ask to try
or try to ask.
My eventual triumph
will be far more
monumental
than anything
your degree promised you
as I laugh all the way
to the unemployment line.
I'm twenty-seven
finally living
and wouldn't trade it
for the world.
Hallelujah, motherfucker.
on Main Street in a hip town
that I can barely afford
now that I've fired her.
I have a trade that'd make me
a hell of a buck if only
the economy was better
and there was enough work
to go around.
I have friends
whom I can throw
farther than I can trust.
I have a lot of nights in bed.
I have a father twelve miles away
who denies my existence
despite my desperate letters
and thirst to break the curse.
I have an addictive personality
that gets me in just enough trouble
to make me feel alive
with its consequences.
I have a penchant for drinking
alone at home or in crowds
and swear the bottle off
at least thrice per week.
I have a smoker's cough
that'll undeniably turn
to cancer one day or another.
I walk around with a gun
and act like it'll save me.
I'm a grower, not a shower.
I have an ex who finally realizes
that despite my faults
I was right.
I have a lot of exes
in various boats
and mental albums.
Most of it upstairs is skewed
so I can paint it over.
I fall in love with random
strangers in public
multiple times a week
with the excuse
that I have a sixth sense
for beauty.
I'm terrible at sleeping alone.
I can drink you under the table
and out of the closet.
I'll probably ask to try
or try to ask.
My eventual triumph
will be far more
monumental
than anything
your degree promised you
as I laugh all the way
to the unemployment line.
I'm twenty-seven
finally living
and wouldn't trade it
for the world.
Hallelujah, motherfucker.
10.06.2011
The Surgeon General Wastes Breath With His Warning
The shit-show takes
a much needed break
as half of our posse
vacates the bar.
My newest and best
wanders off to an alley
relieving himself
between the brick walls.
I reach for my pack
and conjure a lighter.
A third party notes
that it's white, there-
fore smart.
"No one will steal it,"
he states
too damn sure
that old pothead lore
of jinxes applies.
I smile through smoke
and nod like he's got me
but really I know
that's it's not
what he thinks:
A person hard up
is a person hard up
and an addict in need
will steal from a leper
regardless of what
the mystics believe.
Their greatest fear
is that we smell it on them.
The sweat?
No, the fear
and a Bic's worth of butane.
I never quite get
why they wager that bet
but over and over
the numbers don't lie.
My friend saunters back
a stain on his jeans
where the joke is on him
like the tip that he'll leave.
"Gimme a light," he demands
through his teeth
and he pockets my fire
when he's done sparking up.
The sad humbled genius
swallows his words
and straightens his specs
without superstition.
"Matches next time,"
I think to myself
as I leave them to ponder
their new Fifth Dimension.
a much needed break
as half of our posse
vacates the bar.
My newest and best
wanders off to an alley
relieving himself
between the brick walls.
I reach for my pack
and conjure a lighter.
A third party notes
that it's white, there-
fore smart.
"No one will steal it,"
he states
too damn sure
that old pothead lore
of jinxes applies.
I smile through smoke
and nod like he's got me
but really I know
that's it's not
what he thinks:
A person hard up
is a person hard up
and an addict in need
will steal from a leper
regardless of what
the mystics believe.
Their greatest fear
is that we smell it on them.
The sweat?
No, the fear
and a Bic's worth of butane.
I never quite get
why they wager that bet
but over and over
the numbers don't lie.
My friend saunters back
a stain on his jeans
where the joke is on him
like the tip that he'll leave.
"Gimme a light," he demands
through his teeth
and he pockets my fire
when he's done sparking up.
The sad humbled genius
swallows his words
and straightens his specs
without superstition.
"Matches next time,"
I think to myself
as I leave them to ponder
their new Fifth Dimension.
10.05.2011
For Fear of More Than Backwash
Main Street was a ghost town lit up for seemingly nothing. The night was young enough to make believable promises though the sidewalks were mostly deserted. Perhaps the recent drop in temperature was discouraging the locals from venturing out into the fray. I was running a few minutes late, but knew I'd still beat her to the restaurant. Late in my mind is only two minutes early.
A traffic light changed and halted my forward progress. Neon glow from the convenience store on the corner bounced off a three-day-old puddle too stubborn to disappear. I pulled hard on my cigarette as the autumn air crept up the loosely rolled sleeves of my red cowboy shirt. Part of me felt like the essence; part of me felt like a fraud.
A rattling sound approached from behind while unaffected cars sped by. I turned and saw a shopping cart full of empty bottles and cans being pushed by one of Beacon's resident homeless. A gray sweatshirt broke the wind from his back and a pair of navy slacks somehow matched. The standard ancient running sneakers propelled him along, this time in my direction. His salt-and-pepper hair sat above a sun-wrinkled face accented by shining blue eyes that were deep in forming a question.
"Smrgls grb," he said with unflinching conviction.
"Excuse me?" I asked the undecipherable pilgrim.
"Arltm fwp, brg," was his puzzling response.
This'd get nowhere and there was somewhere I had to be. Couldn't keep an old friend waiting; ten years was long enough. It was one of two things he probably wanted and my pockets weren't jingling with change. I pulled my pack from my breast pocket and handed him a smoke. He thanked me with a nod and slipped the menthol behind his ear, clearly not ready to indulge in its sick pleasures. His eyes were still glued to my face like there was something more he wanted. My left hand rummaged through the pocket of my Levi's. Nothing but a lighter, a pen, and my bulky set of keys. I was prepared for the awkward denial of currency that always made me feel like less of a decent human.
"Are you new around here?" he asked in a suddenly recognizable idiom.
"Yeah. Why?" Was I an obvious outsider? Was my plaid shirt not up to snuff with the downtown hipster regime? Were my cigarettes not trendy, maybe even disgraceful? Was I a dead give-away for a new Beacon denizen because I stopped to chat? The endless paranoid possibilities raced through my mind in the brief time it took for him to respond.
"I haven't seen you around. Want some beer?"
He lifted a brown-bagged tallboy from his cart and extended it my way.
"No, thanks," I told him as politely as possible. "I'm heading to dinner," unsure what that fact had to do with taking a swig of brew. The truth was that I could've used a drink. The last several weeks had been brutal. They were nothing compared to this man's problems, of course, but difficult in their own right relative to my own trivial life.
"It's my last one," came the humbling reply from my one-man welcoming committee. His tone wasn't sad, it was sincere.
A tingle ran down my spine at the thought of what had happened. Bukowski reincarnate. Another man in the trenches. The snowflake tattoo made sense again: we're really all the same, as different as we are. A man who's lived so hard that there's not much left, like a piston never oiled and worn away by friction, took the time of day to trade some beer for a smoke and make an honest man out of a kid in needless haste. He wasn't aware that the busier of the two bars in town had a limit of two Long Island Iced Teas per customer. He didn't know, and I didn't care. A friend could order those last couple anyway-- a friend like the one who was waiting to meet for dinner. I was lucky to be where I could start over whether or not I deserved it. Beacon was a blessing, even without the intended roommate.
"Take it easy," I said as the light turned green, not stopping to think that it was the only way he could take it.
"Rflp dwt," was barely audible amidst the rumble and clang of a shopping cart starting up again.
I was only one minute late.
A traffic light changed and halted my forward progress. Neon glow from the convenience store on the corner bounced off a three-day-old puddle too stubborn to disappear. I pulled hard on my cigarette as the autumn air crept up the loosely rolled sleeves of my red cowboy shirt. Part of me felt like the essence; part of me felt like a fraud.
A rattling sound approached from behind while unaffected cars sped by. I turned and saw a shopping cart full of empty bottles and cans being pushed by one of Beacon's resident homeless. A gray sweatshirt broke the wind from his back and a pair of navy slacks somehow matched. The standard ancient running sneakers propelled him along, this time in my direction. His salt-and-pepper hair sat above a sun-wrinkled face accented by shining blue eyes that were deep in forming a question.
"Smrgls grb," he said with unflinching conviction.
"Excuse me?" I asked the undecipherable pilgrim.
"Arltm fwp, brg," was his puzzling response.
This'd get nowhere and there was somewhere I had to be. Couldn't keep an old friend waiting; ten years was long enough. It was one of two things he probably wanted and my pockets weren't jingling with change. I pulled my pack from my breast pocket and handed him a smoke. He thanked me with a nod and slipped the menthol behind his ear, clearly not ready to indulge in its sick pleasures. His eyes were still glued to my face like there was something more he wanted. My left hand rummaged through the pocket of my Levi's. Nothing but a lighter, a pen, and my bulky set of keys. I was prepared for the awkward denial of currency that always made me feel like less of a decent human.
"Are you new around here?" he asked in a suddenly recognizable idiom.
"Yeah. Why?" Was I an obvious outsider? Was my plaid shirt not up to snuff with the downtown hipster regime? Were my cigarettes not trendy, maybe even disgraceful? Was I a dead give-away for a new Beacon denizen because I stopped to chat? The endless paranoid possibilities raced through my mind in the brief time it took for him to respond.
"I haven't seen you around. Want some beer?"
He lifted a brown-bagged tallboy from his cart and extended it my way.
"No, thanks," I told him as politely as possible. "I'm heading to dinner," unsure what that fact had to do with taking a swig of brew. The truth was that I could've used a drink. The last several weeks had been brutal. They were nothing compared to this man's problems, of course, but difficult in their own right relative to my own trivial life.
"It's my last one," came the humbling reply from my one-man welcoming committee. His tone wasn't sad, it was sincere.
A tingle ran down my spine at the thought of what had happened. Bukowski reincarnate. Another man in the trenches. The snowflake tattoo made sense again: we're really all the same, as different as we are. A man who's lived so hard that there's not much left, like a piston never oiled and worn away by friction, took the time of day to trade some beer for a smoke and make an honest man out of a kid in needless haste. He wasn't aware that the busier of the two bars in town had a limit of two Long Island Iced Teas per customer. He didn't know, and I didn't care. A friend could order those last couple anyway-- a friend like the one who was waiting to meet for dinner. I was lucky to be where I could start over whether or not I deserved it. Beacon was a blessing, even without the intended roommate.
"Take it easy," I said as the light turned green, not stopping to think that it was the only way he could take it.
"Rflp dwt," was barely audible amidst the rumble and clang of a shopping cart starting up again.
I was only one minute late.
10.04.2011
What Used To Get Me Sex Now Just Gets Me Sleep.
The shower tastes like sulphur
like the flavor I'll be damned to
when the crowd decides to wane
when the weak ones fall away.
The beer spit comes up thick
in this bloody shotgun throat.
Tonsils swim in the saliva
where she could always smell infection
and the burning of tobacco
that I reserved for secret weekends.
You fooled no one but yourself, kid.
You're not so Double Agent.
Rocco, you father, I've duped you yet again.
Johnny Unstoppable left pill bottles burning
in the parking lot where
I keep my junk, let me save the photos
of me thirty pounds lighter
eight years happier
in the arms of a German Angel
too right to wrong with words.
(Those awkward jawbones, those crisp eyebrows
that longing Spanish tongue, a virgin
before me.)
A gentle giant notes
the recent rise in chloroform
and the evening bleeds out normal
while the Firethorns down their swill.
You could've been a lot of things
but instead you chose to fold.
You could've had some teachers
though you'd rather just become one.
You could've, would've, should've
but you'd rather shut your eyes.
like the flavor I'll be damned to
when the crowd decides to wane
when the weak ones fall away.
The beer spit comes up thick
in this bloody shotgun throat.
Tonsils swim in the saliva
where she could always smell infection
and the burning of tobacco
that I reserved for secret weekends.
You fooled no one but yourself, kid.
You're not so Double Agent.
Rocco, you father, I've duped you yet again.
Johnny Unstoppable left pill bottles burning
in the parking lot where
I keep my junk, let me save the photos
of me thirty pounds lighter
eight years happier
in the arms of a German Angel
too right to wrong with words.
(Those awkward jawbones, those crisp eyebrows
that longing Spanish tongue, a virgin
before me.)
A gentle giant notes
the recent rise in chloroform
and the evening bleeds out normal
while the Firethorns down their swill.
You could've been a lot of things
but instead you chose to fold.
You could've had some teachers
though you'd rather just become one.
You could've, would've, should've
but you'd rather shut your eyes.
9.26.2011
Fredo Deserved What He Got in That Rowboat
Before running out
for drinks with an ex
my latest mistake
made one last request:
"Turn the stove off
in thirty, the soup'll be done."
I flipped through the pages
and coughed through the door
something compliant
responsible, even.
A hunch or an itch
or a hair up my ass
caused me to put down
my book for a moment.
When I went to the kitchen
the room smelled of gas.
The burner went out, the flame
was long gone, the timer was set
on the microwave dial.
A fuse had been left
to even the tally
to settle the scorn
and shake up a sinner.
A laugh chased a shudder
and then the reverse.
I opened a window
to get some fresh air.
When the new regime comes
to tear down your art
I won't ask her to take off
her shoes at the door.
for drinks with an ex
my latest mistake
made one last request:
"Turn the stove off
in thirty, the soup'll be done."
I flipped through the pages
and coughed through the door
something compliant
responsible, even.
A hunch or an itch
or a hair up my ass
caused me to put down
my book for a moment.
When I went to the kitchen
the room smelled of gas.
The burner went out, the flame
was long gone, the timer was set
on the microwave dial.
A fuse had been left
to even the tally
to settle the scorn
and shake up a sinner.
A laugh chased a shudder
and then the reverse.
I opened a window
to get some fresh air.
When the new regime comes
to tear down your art
I won't ask her to take off
her shoes at the door.
9.24.2011
Uncorked
We fucked like starving strangers
while both still half asleep
by accident last week
in the 2 am darkness
of our hollowed out apartment.
Even in bitter dreamscapes
we somehow knew the way.
The following day
I plumbed for the rich
in a county I'll never call home
while she cracked the bottle of white
I had in the fridge
like some sort of sad reverse date
or perhaps a salve to stop the heartache
of over two years down the tubes.
Either way I couldn't blame her
when I saw the cork protruding
next to the crisper later that evening.
A ten-dollar bottle of grapes
is the least a man can do
for a woman whose fire forged him.
Last night my gut was warmed
when I saw the familiar bag
with our liquor store's logo on it.
There it was, replaced
and doubled:
two bottles of wine--
white, my favorite.
I lifted one up off the counter.
The same as the one
she'd polished off alone.
A payment. A replenishing.
A tithing of the damned.
The second one felt heavier
in my hands as I read the label
and laughed. A company called
Clean Slate from some dry shithole
of a California valley.
An apology. A promise.
A rewinding of the clock.
I put them both in the wine rack
and headed off to bed
not sure if we'd meet
in our sleep again
like lovers out of time.
"Where's the other bottle?"
I asked today, oddly frantic
after coming home from work
and noticing the new brand was gone.
"I brought it to Becky's," she said
barely glancing up from her book.
"We drank some of her stock
the other night, figured I'd replace it."
So much for the clean slate.
I read the title in her hands.
'A Farewell to Arms' by Hemingway.
So much for a lot of things.
"Is that my book?" I asked
already knowing the answer.
"Yes," she replied in that tone of hers
that promised not to bend the pages
break the spine, or underline anything
in case it should be more profound
than something my highlighter missed.
I went and ran the shower.
The hot takes a long time to rise
way up here on the third floor.
It's a sad thing, a break-up;
but sometimes it's as needed
as that magic on the rocks.
while both still half asleep
by accident last week
in the 2 am darkness
of our hollowed out apartment.
Even in bitter dreamscapes
we somehow knew the way.
The following day
I plumbed for the rich
in a county I'll never call home
while she cracked the bottle of white
I had in the fridge
like some sort of sad reverse date
or perhaps a salve to stop the heartache
of over two years down the tubes.
Either way I couldn't blame her
when I saw the cork protruding
next to the crisper later that evening.
A ten-dollar bottle of grapes
is the least a man can do
for a woman whose fire forged him.
Last night my gut was warmed
when I saw the familiar bag
with our liquor store's logo on it.
There it was, replaced
and doubled:
two bottles of wine--
white, my favorite.
I lifted one up off the counter.
The same as the one
she'd polished off alone.
A payment. A replenishing.
A tithing of the damned.
The second one felt heavier
in my hands as I read the label
and laughed. A company called
Clean Slate from some dry shithole
of a California valley.
An apology. A promise.
A rewinding of the clock.
I put them both in the wine rack
and headed off to bed
not sure if we'd meet
in our sleep again
like lovers out of time.
"Where's the other bottle?"
I asked today, oddly frantic
after coming home from work
and noticing the new brand was gone.
"I brought it to Becky's," she said
barely glancing up from her book.
"We drank some of her stock
the other night, figured I'd replace it."
So much for the clean slate.
I read the title in her hands.
'A Farewell to Arms' by Hemingway.
So much for a lot of things.
"Is that my book?" I asked
already knowing the answer.
"Yes," she replied in that tone of hers
that promised not to bend the pages
break the spine, or underline anything
in case it should be more profound
than something my highlighter missed.
I went and ran the shower.
The hot takes a long time to rise
way up here on the third floor.
It's a sad thing, a break-up;
but sometimes it's as needed
as that magic on the rocks.
9.14.2011
Behold the Passive-Aggressive Widow-Maker
It's a lot like drowning; no, it's exactly like it, if the timespan could be stretched and drawn like Lucifer's taffy over the course of wasted months and years. Would his favorite flavor have to be cinnamon? And what is time anyway? Relative, like the rest of it; like the lake beyond my black-socked toes as I lay here on this un-pulled-out couch in the cabin of a withered, bitter man who hates me without my calling him Father (and to think I threw my dad's knife into this tea brown abyss two years ago to keep her necklace safe after she'd lost it in the drink). I sip my third beer of a seasonal variety twelver and stare at the deceptively glistening September water. It's seventy-six outside and the ducks still dive for snails so big it looks like they should choke. I watch the shells squeeze down their necks and almost gag vicariously. Still, this isn't swimming weather, or dying weather, as far as the animal kingdom is concerned. The denial-smiled boaters floating by are safe from hypothermic shock, but only a fool would venture out on what we've ironically got here: one-and-a-half working jet-skis and a partially-inflated rubber raft. Then again, only two fools would've made most of the decisions we have thus far, collectively and on our own separate failings. The fucking, the dating, the moving in together and consolidation of commodities. What kind of moron gives away his mattress so soon, and to a kid who doesn't put sheets on his bed? What kind of self-respecting genius would succumb to all that loathsome locked-downedness; oh, right: a self-deprecating one, or the two it took to Tango this time as it always does in tales such as ours. So here we sit, myself on this hand-me-down, farted-into-a-million-times couch and she on the non-matching cushioned chair in the corner that'd be ideal for any number of deviant sexual positions that we'll never attempt again in the company of one another, maybe not at all until we're finished licking our wounds and ready to look and lick elsewhere. I'm pecking at a dusty keyboard between swigs, she's nose-deep in a borrowed book that she'll finish today if it takes her last sarcastic breath and we're both knee-deep in shit that neither will own up to for the sake of battered pride and the dreaded fear of Who Gets To Keep The High Thread-Count Sheets? Who will lay the final sword down? Who will swallow their well-chosen words? Hopefully neither one of us yet since it's a four-hour drive back to civilization and we took her car for gas mileage purposes. I love my Jap truck and have made beautiful lust in it, but it's no subcompact sports car on any day of the week. It's a hell up in Harlem and no different here in the Adirondacks, but at least the terrorists didn't blow anything important up on yesterday's tenth anniversary of The Day We All Hate To Remember (aside from many Hellos and a handful of Goodbyes). Or maybe they did their dirty deed and we don't know it yet. Maybe the effects are still pumping down the pipeline, not ready to be felt yet, like a shockwave from a distant bomb that knocks us off our feet and into a vat of refuse more repugnant than our own. Maybe they poisoned the reservoirs and aqueducts and the outcome won't show until nine months from now when the first batch of mutant babies are born. I'd like to think we're safe from all the sadistic hocus-pocus of the madmen, but if we're scared enough to wonder then the turbaned ones have won. Besides, it's not shrill-voiced Arabs who will kill us in the end; our battlefield lays on the inside of our fortress, in the mind that's left to wander, on this lake that looks enticing but will only yield shameful shivering and an awkward ride home lined with broken promises and threats that sound relieving. Go West, young infidels. Carry your baggage to freedom, or at least out of harm's way of your parents' shortcomings. It's not so bad, this poisoned, frigid lake they've left us. Once you get beyond the smell you've practically got it licked. This last beer's hit triumphantly. I see the sun through the leaves again despite handprints on the sliding-glass door. Anyone care to take a dip?
8.14.2011
It's not a fruit, Goddammit.
Nothing's sacred anymore.
You've spent your evening washing down
three-day-old taco meat
with pre-packaged diced peaches in pear juice
while the droplets pelted pavement
like firebombs in Tokyo.
(We killed more Nips that way
than with the atom bombs combined.)
The homeless woman
slightly out of place
in this hip new town
a stone's throw from Hell
is a mere memory now
swimming somewhere in a wasted Sunday.
You wonder if she found that change
that you denied her, mush-mouthed
or some shelter from the rain
that a jealous God cast down
and beat yourself up
for not making her a sandwich
since you made her what she is.
You could've spared a can of tuna
and pawned off some produce
that'll only go to waste this week
since the Boss is out of town.
"Free 'maters for friends"
the sign should say tomorrow
as you pass them out at work
and try to buy some time.
It's a vegetable if kids take convincing.
It's a fruit if it tastes too good to last
and runs down your chin
like the salt of forbidden seas.
It doesn't matter; "Nature's hardest
hue to hold..."
The meat, the fruit, the cream, and your future
mother-in-law's never-ending tomatoes;
only the grain is missing
but you'll drink that down tomorrow
if it's anything like today--
that is, to say, if the bricks
don't float away overnight.
Forgive me, father. I see you now.
You've spent your evening washing down
three-day-old taco meat
with pre-packaged diced peaches in pear juice
while the droplets pelted pavement
like firebombs in Tokyo.
(We killed more Nips that way
than with the atom bombs combined.)
The homeless woman
slightly out of place
in this hip new town
a stone's throw from Hell
is a mere memory now
swimming somewhere in a wasted Sunday.
You wonder if she found that change
that you denied her, mush-mouthed
or some shelter from the rain
that a jealous God cast down
and beat yourself up
for not making her a sandwich
since you made her what she is.
You could've spared a can of tuna
and pawned off some produce
that'll only go to waste this week
since the Boss is out of town.
"Free 'maters for friends"
the sign should say tomorrow
as you pass them out at work
and try to buy some time.
It's a vegetable if kids take convincing.
It's a fruit if it tastes too good to last
and runs down your chin
like the salt of forbidden seas.
It doesn't matter; "Nature's hardest
hue to hold..."
The meat, the fruit, the cream, and your future
mother-in-law's never-ending tomatoes;
only the grain is missing
but you'll drink that down tomorrow
if it's anything like today--
that is, to say, if the bricks
don't float away overnight.
Forgive me, father. I see you now.
7.21.2011
Better left for an unlucky tourist.
The first pool in years
and it goes down like this:
a call, a change, a reach
a remembrance.
One hundred and six
with the heat index, kids.
Try not to over-exert the old man.
Conned into trunks
with the lure of her love
and a few cardboard boxes
of pizza, cold beer.
Wade in chlorine
til she knows what I mean
when I say that the sweat
burns the eyes more than tears.
The squat in the shorts
in the shallow end smarts
when I check the side pocket
for sea shells left over
from the ride that we took
through the Keys
we were hooked
and we are
and we'll be
like that pocket
(empty)
if we ever forget
that we'd never get closer
to finding ourselves
in another weak shell
rolling and trolling
for crimson and clover.
and it goes down like this:
a call, a change, a reach
a remembrance.
One hundred and six
with the heat index, kids.
Try not to over-exert the old man.
Conned into trunks
with the lure of her love
and a few cardboard boxes
of pizza, cold beer.
Wade in chlorine
til she knows what I mean
when I say that the sweat
burns the eyes more than tears.
The squat in the shorts
in the shallow end smarts
when I check the side pocket
for sea shells left over
from the ride that we took
through the Keys
we were hooked
and we are
and we'll be
like that pocket
(empty)
if we ever forget
that we'd never get closer
to finding ourselves
in another weak shell
rolling and trolling
for crimson and clover.
7.16.2011
Onomatopoeia
I made her a bloody one.
The tomato masked the vodka
while the flavor still remained:
a heartache is a heartache is
a heartache is a shame.
We sat on the porch, blinds down
to hide my unsheathed body
and our intoxicated bickering
while I buzzed my head
between sips of Summer Ale.
She scratched her arm while
hot sauce, horseradish and worcestershire
fought for dominance in the drink
the vodka laughing all the way
to the bank or the liver or the brain
and the heart.
A cheap cigar cutter forgotten on the spare chair
read in gold from the black plastic makings--
"El Mundo del Rey", "The World of God"--
and the Wind blew a broom
down on my leg to remind me:
If all you carry is a hammer
every problem resembles a nail.
The tomato masked the vodka
while the flavor still remained:
a heartache is a heartache is
a heartache is a shame.
We sat on the porch, blinds down
to hide my unsheathed body
and our intoxicated bickering
while I buzzed my head
between sips of Summer Ale.
She scratched her arm while
hot sauce, horseradish and worcestershire
fought for dominance in the drink
the vodka laughing all the way
to the bank or the liver or the brain
and the heart.
A cheap cigar cutter forgotten on the spare chair
read in gold from the black plastic makings--
"El Mundo del Rey", "The World of God"--
and the Wind blew a broom
down on my leg to remind me:
If all you carry is a hammer
every problem resembles a nail.
7.10.2011
The First Lie I Was Told Of Christ
When I was still a sprouting seed
fresh from the first-grade swing set
a curly-haired kid came up to me
en route to Sunday school
with a tale on his face next to the jelly stains.
"They used railroad nails to put Him
on the cross," he whispered, as though
an older brother had shared the news
and sworn him to secrecy with fear
of wedgies or worse. "Still, they
couldn't keep Him there," he boasted
with the blind Christian pride
instilled by his vanilla parents
who'd never lied on their taxes.
We were getting closer to the
twelve-by-sixteen room with folding chairs
and on-sale snacks for the church-dragged kids
to devour while their parents caught the wrath
of the fed-up preacher's fire and brimstone
so I had no time to spend
pointing out what he'd missed:
They could and did kill Him, and He let them
for the sake of mankind, supposedly.
It didn't dawn on me until today
that the food-faced little bastard
and his conspiratory older brother
were more full of shit than I'd imagined--
Railroads didn't exist two thousand years ago
like God and His offspring don't now
to most of us cut from the same cloth
as Abraham. Don't thank me for
the belated forgiveness; I've done
bigger favors for lesser men.
Just ask my union hall.
(If they don't pick up the phone
keep calling.)
fresh from the first-grade swing set
a curly-haired kid came up to me
en route to Sunday school
with a tale on his face next to the jelly stains.
"They used railroad nails to put Him
on the cross," he whispered, as though
an older brother had shared the news
and sworn him to secrecy with fear
of wedgies or worse. "Still, they
couldn't keep Him there," he boasted
with the blind Christian pride
instilled by his vanilla parents
who'd never lied on their taxes.
We were getting closer to the
twelve-by-sixteen room with folding chairs
and on-sale snacks for the church-dragged kids
to devour while their parents caught the wrath
of the fed-up preacher's fire and brimstone
so I had no time to spend
pointing out what he'd missed:
They could and did kill Him, and He let them
for the sake of mankind, supposedly.
It didn't dawn on me until today
that the food-faced little bastard
and his conspiratory older brother
were more full of shit than I'd imagined--
Railroads didn't exist two thousand years ago
like God and His offspring don't now
to most of us cut from the same cloth
as Abraham. Don't thank me for
the belated forgiveness; I've done
bigger favors for lesser men.
Just ask my union hall.
(If they don't pick up the phone
keep calling.)
7.08.2011
Thrifty Deductibles
In awe of the brash-tongued hexes
scrawled on the fitting room walls
in marker, pen, and pink highlighter
I tried on some shirts given by WASPs
for tax credits and more closet space.
"For a good time call..." no longer a phrase;
replaced instead by expletives and threats
of colorful misspelled diseases, complete with phone
numbers and names to request.
Demand for a tongue in the Valley of Sin
'til tears emerge at the corners of eyes
wins the prize for Most Likely To Make Grandma Cringe.
Some racial slurs thrown in for crisp collar effect
constrict around the white-washed room
like the neck of the cheap Little League Tee
that'll wind up back on the rack in a few
waiting to shame another passer-by.
Grammar traps and a Swastika and at least
three area codes, one of which I don't know
litter the peeling paint worse than the
dust-bunnied tiles scuffed by rubber soles.
The wise guy in me wants to write sense
into some of the sayers of things best unsaid.
My thumb clicks the pen in my left slash pocket
prepared to pass it right to chime in
but the better half wins, the Good Wolf is fed.
I look up as though a Not-For-Profit could
afford surveillance cameras
and resume my afternoon trying on used clothes
like the joke's not as old as the clown
juggling through it.
"Discretion," my new best friend
said once as we rattled home in his van
"is the better part of valor."
He wasn't boastful, only teaching
in the ways he knows best:
through action and goading and turning a wrench.
Men like that should have names carved in stone
where dressing room artists will never ascend.
It's a process. It's a promise. It's a way out of Newburgh.
scrawled on the fitting room walls
in marker, pen, and pink highlighter
I tried on some shirts given by WASPs
for tax credits and more closet space.
"For a good time call..." no longer a phrase;
replaced instead by expletives and threats
of colorful misspelled diseases, complete with phone
numbers and names to request.
Demand for a tongue in the Valley of Sin
'til tears emerge at the corners of eyes
wins the prize for Most Likely To Make Grandma Cringe.
Some racial slurs thrown in for crisp collar effect
constrict around the white-washed room
like the neck of the cheap Little League Tee
that'll wind up back on the rack in a few
waiting to shame another passer-by.
Grammar traps and a Swastika and at least
three area codes, one of which I don't know
litter the peeling paint worse than the
dust-bunnied tiles scuffed by rubber soles.
The wise guy in me wants to write sense
into some of the sayers of things best unsaid.
My thumb clicks the pen in my left slash pocket
prepared to pass it right to chime in
but the better half wins, the Good Wolf is fed.
I look up as though a Not-For-Profit could
afford surveillance cameras
and resume my afternoon trying on used clothes
like the joke's not as old as the clown
juggling through it.
"Discretion," my new best friend
said once as we rattled home in his van
"is the better part of valor."
He wasn't boastful, only teaching
in the ways he knows best:
through action and goading and turning a wrench.
Men like that should have names carved in stone
where dressing room artists will never ascend.
It's a process. It's a promise. It's a way out of Newburgh.
7.05.2011
Pete fell off. Who was left?
The truth is that if you don't wake up tomorrow no one will scribble a word in your direction, let alone pen a song.
The truth is that I like when the fireworks go off lower than they probably should because the thought of half-drunk firemen scrambling from the embers is not so entirely unentertaining.
The truth is that I didn't pull over when a tractor-trailer changed lanes and forced a sports utility vehicle into a ditch while doing seventy during my morning commute last week since I was running late and my coffee wasn't working.
The truth is that I've smuggled switchblades on airplanes and would again without thinking twice.
The truth is that those greeting cards with the New Love heading which probably should read Psycho may have been written with me in mind.
The truth is that driving by my father's house when I happen to be in the area is my own modern-day version of poking my head into the dragon's lair to remind myself that there are worse things than singed eyebrows.
The truth is that plumbing happened to me for a reason and I wouldn't be blessed with the adopted family I've constructed if it wasn't for pipes and fluids.
The truth is that I miss you.
The truth is that the government ending the Space Program is another sign that it's the Beginning of the End, though Orwell and Vonnegut and the boys had the details all wrong.
The truth is that I don't mind the fuzzy feeling of one hundred ten volts of electricity.
The truth is that I roll the windows down just enough to smell July's roadkill, even though no one actually rolls them anymore.
The truth is that every time I pass my high school track I cringe and wish that life was still broken down into one lazy-paced quarter-mile at a time.
The truth is that I apologize for the things I shouldn't and blame myself for what's not my fault.
The truth is that I've squandered time and money in equal parts to the point of self-pitying karmic equilibrium.
The truth is that I'd rather have two good friends with which to porchdrink than a list of acquaintances who may or may not do justice when the ammo runs out.
The truth is that I like the ideas of things, writing and guns included, more than the things themselves.
The truth is that there's a full load of laundry waiting to be folded and I've got limited moonlight before work.
The truth, they forgot to tell you in college and union meetings, is as highly overrated as blood relations.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit At Rest" by John Updike.
The truth is that I like when the fireworks go off lower than they probably should because the thought of half-drunk firemen scrambling from the embers is not so entirely unentertaining.
The truth is that I didn't pull over when a tractor-trailer changed lanes and forced a sports utility vehicle into a ditch while doing seventy during my morning commute last week since I was running late and my coffee wasn't working.
The truth is that I've smuggled switchblades on airplanes and would again without thinking twice.
The truth is that those greeting cards with the New Love heading which probably should read Psycho may have been written with me in mind.
The truth is that driving by my father's house when I happen to be in the area is my own modern-day version of poking my head into the dragon's lair to remind myself that there are worse things than singed eyebrows.
The truth is that plumbing happened to me for a reason and I wouldn't be blessed with the adopted family I've constructed if it wasn't for pipes and fluids.
The truth is that I miss you.
The truth is that the government ending the Space Program is another sign that it's the Beginning of the End, though Orwell and Vonnegut and the boys had the details all wrong.
The truth is that I don't mind the fuzzy feeling of one hundred ten volts of electricity.
The truth is that I roll the windows down just enough to smell July's roadkill, even though no one actually rolls them anymore.
The truth is that every time I pass my high school track I cringe and wish that life was still broken down into one lazy-paced quarter-mile at a time.
The truth is that I apologize for the things I shouldn't and blame myself for what's not my fault.
The truth is that I've squandered time and money in equal parts to the point of self-pitying karmic equilibrium.
The truth is that I'd rather have two good friends with which to porchdrink than a list of acquaintances who may or may not do justice when the ammo runs out.
The truth is that I like the ideas of things, writing and guns included, more than the things themselves.
The truth is that there's a full load of laundry waiting to be folded and I've got limited moonlight before work.
The truth, they forgot to tell you in college and union meetings, is as highly overrated as blood relations.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit At Rest" by John Updike.
6.28.2011
Operative Phrase
The reason you hear
trucks' air-brakes at night
from the highway that's far
by the toils of light:
The ionosphere lowers
to bounce back the waves
that castrate our ears
and rally the slaves.
(He's not listening, Jim.
He won't sit down.)
A genius once
and again told me this
and I mumble his name
as I aim my clear piss
in a toilet that's stained
with the water that's hard
while the house crumbles down
disgraces the yard.
(Pull it, sir. He's Rogue.)
But the hours they lurk
while the weeks drag on by
through the months that tell tales
and the years that don't lie.
There's a snake in the grass.
There's a wrench in the plan
that lost a good boy
in the mazes of man.
(Engage target: John Doe.)
trucks' air-brakes at night
from the highway that's far
by the toils of light:
The ionosphere lowers
to bounce back the waves
that castrate our ears
and rally the slaves.
(He's not listening, Jim.
He won't sit down.)
A genius once
and again told me this
and I mumble his name
as I aim my clear piss
in a toilet that's stained
with the water that's hard
while the house crumbles down
disgraces the yard.
(Pull it, sir. He's Rogue.)
But the hours they lurk
while the weeks drag on by
through the months that tell tales
and the years that don't lie.
There's a snake in the grass.
There's a wrench in the plan
that lost a good boy
in the mazes of man.
(Engage target: John Doe.)
6.19.2011
The Rising Tide Will Float All Boats
The day's almost done. The pipes are back together. Water runs steadily from Point A to Point B as Bud and I carry our tools towards our trucks. We are the sole reasons for its availability of use at each fixture in the building. Faucets, toilets, and drinking fountains have been given life again due to our careful craftsmanship. Don't be fooled by the assumptions of a lesser caste status; plumbers have a power perceptible in absence. One may not feel their omnipotence until gravity and physics don't suffice to tame the flow. It's a perk they don't teach in apprenticeship school. It's a reason to solder with pride. The middle-aged man to my left's been directing fluids for a living for thirty years and has another twenty left in him. I'll be lucky to learn half as much as he's forgotten.
"Get all the grease off your hands," Bud tells me as he wheels the tool cart towards our men's room pit stop. Its left rear wheel pleads for oil with a steady squeak. "I've got something to show you."
My curiousity is piqued. I ask him to tell me what it is as we rinse the day's grime from the webs of our fingers, saving the scrubbing of nails for our designated shower toothbrushes at our respective homes. He smiles at me in the mirror and stirs the mysterious pot. "It's nothing new to you, though you haven't seen it in its current state."
We dry our hands with the brown, industrial strength paper towels stripped from the roll that sits on a shelf in the men's room. The dispensers are empty. Housekeeping is lax. It's hard to find good help these days.
The sun beams down on the asphalt with promise of a few more hours 'til dark. Bud lowers the tailgate of his truck and returns his tools to their buckets, cases, and bags. I follow suit, then return to my friend's vehicle to see what familiar item he's brought for Show and Tell this week. He opens the driver's side door, plops down on his beaded seat, and looks me in the eyes.
"The gun you sold me's even better now that I've installed a laser sight," he says, conjuring the firearm from thin air before making sure it's unloaded and passing it my way.
I grip the familiar hunk of steel and activate the laser by depressing a button built into the grip. The eighth-inch red dot illuminates a safe portion of the ground in front of my non-steel-toed boots. In actuality I'm glad to be rid of the thing. It never felt right in my hands for some reason though others swore by the brand. It cycled properly and put tight-clustered groups on paper targets, but left me wanting more. There was something I sought instead of that gun. It behooved me to pass it along, and the one that came to replace it is now the pride of my safe. It's an older piece that has to be manually cocked with the thumb before each shot, but I've got time and patience. I've got loads of both. My mother used to tell me to become a teacher because of my abundance of the latter. I have, in a way, though the student's still the same and more stubborn than ever.
Out of respect I entertain his ego. "Care to sell it back?" I jest, regardless of the fact that I'm thankful for my decision.
"Not for what I paid for it," Bud says as he reaches out his hand to make his hardware disappear again. I pass it back, relieved to be rid of it again.
It's someone else's headache now. She's better off in his hands; I'm better off with mine. I know what I have and I want it. What else is there to happiness, aside from trusty plumbing?
"Get all the grease off your hands," Bud tells me as he wheels the tool cart towards our men's room pit stop. Its left rear wheel pleads for oil with a steady squeak. "I've got something to show you."
My curiousity is piqued. I ask him to tell me what it is as we rinse the day's grime from the webs of our fingers, saving the scrubbing of nails for our designated shower toothbrushes at our respective homes. He smiles at me in the mirror and stirs the mysterious pot. "It's nothing new to you, though you haven't seen it in its current state."
We dry our hands with the brown, industrial strength paper towels stripped from the roll that sits on a shelf in the men's room. The dispensers are empty. Housekeeping is lax. It's hard to find good help these days.
The sun beams down on the asphalt with promise of a few more hours 'til dark. Bud lowers the tailgate of his truck and returns his tools to their buckets, cases, and bags. I follow suit, then return to my friend's vehicle to see what familiar item he's brought for Show and Tell this week. He opens the driver's side door, plops down on his beaded seat, and looks me in the eyes.
"The gun you sold me's even better now that I've installed a laser sight," he says, conjuring the firearm from thin air before making sure it's unloaded and passing it my way.
I grip the familiar hunk of steel and activate the laser by depressing a button built into the grip. The eighth-inch red dot illuminates a safe portion of the ground in front of my non-steel-toed boots. In actuality I'm glad to be rid of the thing. It never felt right in my hands for some reason though others swore by the brand. It cycled properly and put tight-clustered groups on paper targets, but left me wanting more. There was something I sought instead of that gun. It behooved me to pass it along, and the one that came to replace it is now the pride of my safe. It's an older piece that has to be manually cocked with the thumb before each shot, but I've got time and patience. I've got loads of both. My mother used to tell me to become a teacher because of my abundance of the latter. I have, in a way, though the student's still the same and more stubborn than ever.
Out of respect I entertain his ego. "Care to sell it back?" I jest, regardless of the fact that I'm thankful for my decision.
"Not for what I paid for it," Bud says as he reaches out his hand to make his hardware disappear again. I pass it back, relieved to be rid of it again.
It's someone else's headache now. She's better off in his hands; I'm better off with mine. I know what I have and I want it. What else is there to happiness, aside from trusty plumbing?
6.18.2011
Mousse Trail
Twelve consecutive days of carpentry can wear on a man, but Dave's been making up for lost time lately. This balmy June Saturday is a much needed reprieve from the morning's rat race and eight-plus hours of ten-penny nails. It's odd how the sounds of hammers and chop saws have blurred the edges of his hearing. Years on the jobsite have taught him to tune out background noise, for better and for worse. Sometimes this adaptation is useful on the home front like when Linda's on a tear in the next room, though it can also be limiting. Today it's the latter. The birds in the yard are unreasonably happy considering the weather, but Dave doesn't notice at first; nor does he let the overcast skies or mild temperature discourage him from opening the freezer for some ice cream. Linda's already two hours late in returning from her cousin's baby shower, but she'll be home soon. Home and fed and ready. The plaid print of Dave's boxers reflects in the chrome handle on the refrigerator as he stands mostly naked in this kitchen that's been half-his for four years, the longest place he's lived since high school. Dave misses high school, more so when he thinks about it. He misses a lot of things, though he'd only admit to a fraction of them. The logo on the lid of the ice cream promises familiar comfort, but the flavor is a new one that the two of them tried last week. It was a stressful selection at the gas station since he'd been trusted with the critical task of choosing the variety. A full three minutes went into the decision. Both he and Linda take their snack foods seriously. He didn't want to disappoint. When he tried making small talk with the clerk about his decadent woes it fell upon deaf, inbred ears. The woman stared blankly above rabbit teeth in silent prayer for No More Like This Guy until the end of her shift. Dave liked the ice cream that night, as did Linda despite its containing multiple forms of chocolate, and he likes it even more today as he stands in burly bewilderment. In a lazy effort to avoid dirtying a spoon he opts to scoop it from the carton with his left index finger. One bite, two bites, three and then four. The cream becomes sweeter as time drips onward. The birds in the maples come into aural focus. The moment is savored as much as the paycheck he received yesterday. If it was any more zen he'd be floating. Four bites turns to eight, turns to twelve, and he stops himself. The pint's quite lighter, he knows that she'll notice. If there's one thing that Linda's good at it's watching the stats, especially when they're decreasing. For a woman with four siblings she's not so good at sharing. Dave always laughs at the irony in that, though there's not a brother or sister of his own in sight with which to share the humor. In sight, he reminds himself somberly. But what is perception if not relative Truth? Dave pictures the cross-bar of the capital T in that last word dropping down to a humble lower-case position. He's learned a lot about that overrated factor, one of them being the misconception that it will set you free. Linda's delayed discovery of the missing ice cream is a prime example of his new stance on the matter. His pointer finger's cold and numb from being used as a utensil in the frozen debauchery. Dave sucks it clean after returning the carton to its shelter of ice and walks upstairs to his bedroom. Maybe Linda will come home soon and they'll do something that'll require him to put on pants. Maybe she'll strip down and they'll take a pleasantly unnecessary afternoon nap. Either one is an inspiring prospect that makes him miss her more, like the dull ache in his jaw when the ice cream took its toll upon his teeth. Sunday is Father's Day, he remembers. He'll have some phone calls to make. With the equivalent of a mental groan he climbs back into bed and waits; for what, as is often the case with a tired carpenter, he's not sure.
5.28.2011
The Current Sea
Andrew Jackson dictates more of your life than your mother ever did and your lover ever will. Money makes the world go 'round, especially when it's in the form of that common denomination spat by ATMs every second of every day. Inflation's hit our pockets hard, but you can still tell a lot with a twenty dollar bill when it comes to judging character. You used to be able to do a lot with character, too.
There've been times when the green got the best of me, or someone else got the jump with the help of some cash. When I was in the fourth grade a mysterious tissue was sitting on the floor near my desk for an entire day. No one stopped to pick it up and throw it in the trash can a mere five feet away. Just before the afternoon announcements came over the PA system, my teacher-- a barrel-chested black man who cared more than he should have, walked over and picked up the crumpled tissue. "No one bothered all day long," he said disappointedly as he glanced at me quickly and lifted it from floor, revealing what was taped to the bottom: a crisp twenty-spot. We all learned something that day, or at least the more precocious of us did. The bus ride home was spent pondering what we could've done with such an unheard of sum of money. Twenty bucks could buy a lot of candy in 1994.
Then there's the aggravation tax trade-off. How many times have you loaned someone a small amount of money and actually been repaid without asking? Sometimes, as Sonny points out in "A Bronx Tale", lending a pest twenty dollars is the best way to get rid of them. They'll never bother you again with that debt hanging in the air. It's a cheap investment for a simpler life. It's one less headache to rattle your day. It's one less day in God's barrel of laughs. The punchline's in the pudding.
The theory spreads and mutates from the social scene to the construction site. There's the story of the foreman who asks his apprentice if he lost twenty dollars on the job. He holds it up and rubs the folded bill against itself, a visual aid to further the illusion and sweeten the bait. This money, of course, came from the foreman's wallet and is merely a test of the young man's character. If he says Yes he'll get his check in the afternoon and be asked not to return. If he says No he can continue to get coffee for the men every morning and continue his rite of passage. This hasn't happened yet, but it will in a few years. Revenge for that fourth grade mishap, perhaps.
Guilt, or fear of it, can drive a man just as easily. I had a friend who got a call about money that had gone missing in his driveway one night. He brought out his flashlight and combed the whole yard, but nothing turned up with the effort. It frustrated him so much that his friend had lost his money that he was prepared to lie and say he found it. Dipping into the liquor store fund didn't seem to be so bad in comparison to the alternative. No one likes to be a suspect. No one likes to lose that trust. The phone call came later that the money was found in a pocket or under a car seat. It was there all along, the seventh president of the United States grinning and hiding in darkness, not far from the skeletons dangling from cobwebbed hangers.
And what of your shadows? What's worth the money? You'd pay arms and legs to send them away. Twenty bucks is a drop in the bucket. Twenty years as a flash in the pan. Twenty rounds left in the banana clip, and the zombies are still coming.
There've been times when the green got the best of me, or someone else got the jump with the help of some cash. When I was in the fourth grade a mysterious tissue was sitting on the floor near my desk for an entire day. No one stopped to pick it up and throw it in the trash can a mere five feet away. Just before the afternoon announcements came over the PA system, my teacher-- a barrel-chested black man who cared more than he should have, walked over and picked up the crumpled tissue. "No one bothered all day long," he said disappointedly as he glanced at me quickly and lifted it from floor, revealing what was taped to the bottom: a crisp twenty-spot. We all learned something that day, or at least the more precocious of us did. The bus ride home was spent pondering what we could've done with such an unheard of sum of money. Twenty bucks could buy a lot of candy in 1994.
Then there's the aggravation tax trade-off. How many times have you loaned someone a small amount of money and actually been repaid without asking? Sometimes, as Sonny points out in "A Bronx Tale", lending a pest twenty dollars is the best way to get rid of them. They'll never bother you again with that debt hanging in the air. It's a cheap investment for a simpler life. It's one less headache to rattle your day. It's one less day in God's barrel of laughs. The punchline's in the pudding.
The theory spreads and mutates from the social scene to the construction site. There's the story of the foreman who asks his apprentice if he lost twenty dollars on the job. He holds it up and rubs the folded bill against itself, a visual aid to further the illusion and sweeten the bait. This money, of course, came from the foreman's wallet and is merely a test of the young man's character. If he says Yes he'll get his check in the afternoon and be asked not to return. If he says No he can continue to get coffee for the men every morning and continue his rite of passage. This hasn't happened yet, but it will in a few years. Revenge for that fourth grade mishap, perhaps.
Guilt, or fear of it, can drive a man just as easily. I had a friend who got a call about money that had gone missing in his driveway one night. He brought out his flashlight and combed the whole yard, but nothing turned up with the effort. It frustrated him so much that his friend had lost his money that he was prepared to lie and say he found it. Dipping into the liquor store fund didn't seem to be so bad in comparison to the alternative. No one likes to be a suspect. No one likes to lose that trust. The phone call came later that the money was found in a pocket or under a car seat. It was there all along, the seventh president of the United States grinning and hiding in darkness, not far from the skeletons dangling from cobwebbed hangers.
And what of your shadows? What's worth the money? You'd pay arms and legs to send them away. Twenty bucks is a drop in the bucket. Twenty years as a flash in the pan. Twenty rounds left in the banana clip, and the zombies are still coming.
5.19.2011
Fear the Rapture, fear the Reaper, fear your Local Congressman.
What makes the month of May
worse in terms of vermin
is that they're not the moths of March
or April's spiders, the heralds of Spring
being washed down the drain
during afternoon showers;
they're six-legged titans
capable of carrying
one hundred-times their weight
and working together
far better than most.
It's hard to watch as the suds lather
less impressively than the ads claim
'cause they always almost make it, they nearly
fight the tide effectively, but eventually
like lesser men, succumb to the holes
in the chrome-plated drain cover.
Somewhere in the septic
or leeching out to fields
is a half-inch reminder
of what we're all to do:
March to the beat towards what's wrong to eat
as Cortez burned his boats after landing.
worse in terms of vermin
is that they're not the moths of March
or April's spiders, the heralds of Spring
being washed down the drain
during afternoon showers;
they're six-legged titans
capable of carrying
one hundred-times their weight
and working together
far better than most.
It's hard to watch as the suds lather
less impressively than the ads claim
'cause they always almost make it, they nearly
fight the tide effectively, but eventually
like lesser men, succumb to the holes
in the chrome-plated drain cover.
Somewhere in the septic
or leeching out to fields
is a half-inch reminder
of what we're all to do:
March to the beat towards what's wrong to eat
as Cortez burned his boats after landing.
5.10.2011
Selling Tickets to the Abortion
A study aired on the boob-tube news revealed that co-ed military training facilities have been facing new problems brought on by the latest wave of the post-millenium cultural/sexual revolution. There's a fire in the barracks in the bases of the nation. Recruits of all branches are routinely asked to strip and checked for fresh tattoos and piercings acquired on weekend leave in the one-horse towns where they're stationed. Female personnel are impregnated and sent home after nights of drunken fraternizing miles away from anyone who cares, thus wasting tax dollars spent in their training. Marines spread STDs like it's nobody's business; as far as they're concerned it's not. (Maybe that's why they're such a notoriously hot-blooded bunch.) Orgies are not uncommon in the on-base saunas, lesbian activity runs rampant in the gang shower rooms, and the rumors we've heard about lonely men being "ship gay" are true. Many female privates defend theirs by wearing cheap engagement rings on their fingers. It seems a fake rock is sometimes enough to deter the Southern gentlemen, at least when it comes to sober sexual advances. A coward, you see, is someone who's given the chance to do the right thing, but doesn't. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and herpes is forever.
A later segment-- nay, a snippet before commercial break-- stated that scientists have discovered that smelling a woman's tears automatically softens a man's erection due to the chemical make-up of sorrow. We'll laugh, we'll cry, we'll bide our time gracefully until the cows find out that home is regretfully nowhere. Bad advice, if sincere, is still worth two in the bush: a loafer, a hypocrite, a closet sucker for the home team.
A later segment-- nay, a snippet before commercial break-- stated that scientists have discovered that smelling a woman's tears automatically softens a man's erection due to the chemical make-up of sorrow. We'll laugh, we'll cry, we'll bide our time gracefully until the cows find out that home is regretfully nowhere. Bad advice, if sincere, is still worth two in the bush: a loafer, a hypocrite, a closet sucker for the home team.
5.06.2011
Prone to Lung Infections
My father didn't teach me much
except for what's a shame.
He thumped his thick Good Book enough
that Christ forgot His name.
The old man didn't have such skills
that anyone would want.
Forgot to sow the ground he tilled
and aimed but never shot.
I asked him once of politics
the difference in the men.
He said "Well, son, conservatives
and liberals both pretend
to know what's best to save a guy
who's drowning ten feet out.
The liberals throw such extra line
since that's what they're about.
Conservatives, those frugal men
throw five and tell the chap
to swim and take the rope in hand
and learn to close the gap."
I shook my head, a bit confused
while dad unfurled his rope.
Alas, it was too short to use
for drowning men or hope.
except for what's a shame.
He thumped his thick Good Book enough
that Christ forgot His name.
The old man didn't have such skills
that anyone would want.
Forgot to sow the ground he tilled
and aimed but never shot.
I asked him once of politics
the difference in the men.
He said "Well, son, conservatives
and liberals both pretend
to know what's best to save a guy
who's drowning ten feet out.
The liberals throw such extra line
since that's what they're about.
Conservatives, those frugal men
throw five and tell the chap
to swim and take the rope in hand
and learn to close the gap."
I shook my head, a bit confused
while dad unfurled his rope.
Alas, it was too short to use
for drowning men or hope.
5.05.2011
Shotgun Correspondence
Sent: Tuesday, May 03, 2011 1:53 PM
To: Emedia Rifleman
Subject: Better Editing?
As an NRA member, attentive reader, and firearms enthusiast I was rather insulted by this month's issue of American Rifleman. The age-old "ads on the same page as positive, 'unbiased' reviews" routine (i.e., Rhino write-up on page 88) is to be expected in any gun magazine, but I feel we've had the wool pulled over our eyes a bit too blatantly in another example. How can the trusted editors at your publication call the Remington Versa Max "Shotgun of the Year" in the 2011 Golden Bullseye Awards article when on page 94 of the same issue there is a factory recall on the very same shotgun which states the possibility of property damage, personal injury, or death? Those conflicting messages imply one or both of two things about your staff: they're ignorant, or think their readers are. This type of behavior isn't just misleading-- it's irresponsible. Please consider yourselves caught, and hopefully not just by one avid reader.
Regretfully yours,
Mike Vahsen
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mr. Vahsen,
Thanks for your note. The voting for the Golden Bullseye award occurred before the recall came out.
We seriously considered rescinding the award, but chose to go forward after long discussions between our staff and Remington.
Essentially, early in production, first several hundred guns, there was a burr on the cartridge carrier that could cause the carrier to hang up on the receiver's interior, thus retarding the forward movement of the bolt. If this occurred, the hammer had already been freed and could travel forward and "follow" the bolt after its movement had been slowed. Our samples did not exhibit this issue.
Essentially, the gun would not fire, then the weight of the bolt would overcome the friction of the burr on the receiver's interior, and then it would fire--not an ideal situation, obviously.
Remington implemented a production fix as soon as it was known and got almost all of the VersaMax guns back before those with this condition entered commerce.
But they didn't get them all, thus the recall. Comparatively, Remington is not a huge advertiser with Rifleman, nor would we play monetary games with NRA member safety.
We judged the problem to be one that was easily corrected and that Remington got out ahead of the issue quickly enough not to merit revocation of the award.
Sincerely,
Mark Keefe
American Rifleman
To: Emedia Rifleman
Subject: Better Editing?
As an NRA member, attentive reader, and firearms enthusiast I was rather insulted by this month's issue of American Rifleman. The age-old "ads on the same page as positive, 'unbiased' reviews" routine (i.e., Rhino write-up on page 88) is to be expected in any gun magazine, but I feel we've had the wool pulled over our eyes a bit too blatantly in another example. How can the trusted editors at your publication call the Remington Versa Max "Shotgun of the Year" in the 2011 Golden Bullseye Awards article when on page 94 of the same issue there is a factory recall on the very same shotgun which states the possibility of property damage, personal injury, or death? Those conflicting messages imply one or both of two things about your staff: they're ignorant, or think their readers are. This type of behavior isn't just misleading-- it's irresponsible. Please consider yourselves caught, and hopefully not just by one avid reader.
Regretfully yours,
Mike Vahsen
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mr. Vahsen,
Thanks for your note. The voting for the Golden Bullseye award occurred before the recall came out.
We seriously considered rescinding the award, but chose to go forward after long discussions between our staff and Remington.
Essentially, early in production, first several hundred guns, there was a burr on the cartridge carrier that could cause the carrier to hang up on the receiver's interior, thus retarding the forward movement of the bolt. If this occurred, the hammer had already been freed and could travel forward and "follow" the bolt after its movement had been slowed. Our samples did not exhibit this issue.
Essentially, the gun would not fire, then the weight of the bolt would overcome the friction of the burr on the receiver's interior, and then it would fire--not an ideal situation, obviously.
Remington implemented a production fix as soon as it was known and got almost all of the VersaMax guns back before those with this condition entered commerce.
But they didn't get them all, thus the recall. Comparatively, Remington is not a huge advertiser with Rifleman, nor would we play monetary games with NRA member safety.
We judged the problem to be one that was easily corrected and that Remington got out ahead of the issue quickly enough not to merit revocation of the award.
Sincerely,
Mark Keefe
American Rifleman
5.04.2011
Catsitting and Caste Systems
It seemed a shame to wake him
but still I stroked his back
curled into himself
at the foot of my sour bed.
A brief, diminishing glide
of the right paw
was all that it inspired
while the rain continued downward
soaking grass in need of cutting.
His black-and-yellow eyes
barely opened as I lifted
his limp body, more fur than flesh
to the head of my bed
nearer to the pillow
on which I'd soon be drooling
in a midday dreamless nap
that the dreary day demanded.
As I positioned him under the top sheet
his head sticking out
from just behind his pointed ears
he pressed his feline foot against me
in a gentle plead for sleep.
Like a person gesturing, half-awake.
Like a reincarnation of someone long gone.
"Were you a human once, Buddy?" I whisper
towards the clump of domesticated hunter
drifting off beside me in a race to painlessness.
"Raise your right paw if you were," but there's
no motion, and I too follow suit in slumber
the two of us snoring gracefully
like champions of lazy rhythm.
When I wake he's gone, possibly to
the litter box downstairs
or his pink and empty food bowl
or another peaceful perch
unmolested by the likes of Yours Truly--
the only evidence of his presence
a warm spot next to me
on my lonesome mattress.
His undetected exit exudes prowess
unparalleled by any male creature
put on God's green Earth.
I come to the conclusion
that not only was he human once
but must've been a woman.
It's a fitting fate for both of us.
The odds and stakes are noted.
Buddy-Boy, the lover
is paying for her sins.
If it's a sign of what's to come
I can only beg for mercy:
"Please, God. Not a rat-dog.
This bark still has some bite."
but still I stroked his back
curled into himself
at the foot of my sour bed.
A brief, diminishing glide
of the right paw
was all that it inspired
while the rain continued downward
soaking grass in need of cutting.
His black-and-yellow eyes
barely opened as I lifted
his limp body, more fur than flesh
to the head of my bed
nearer to the pillow
on which I'd soon be drooling
in a midday dreamless nap
that the dreary day demanded.
As I positioned him under the top sheet
his head sticking out
from just behind his pointed ears
he pressed his feline foot against me
in a gentle plead for sleep.
Like a person gesturing, half-awake.
Like a reincarnation of someone long gone.
"Were you a human once, Buddy?" I whisper
towards the clump of domesticated hunter
drifting off beside me in a race to painlessness.
"Raise your right paw if you were," but there's
no motion, and I too follow suit in slumber
the two of us snoring gracefully
like champions of lazy rhythm.
When I wake he's gone, possibly to
the litter box downstairs
or his pink and empty food bowl
or another peaceful perch
unmolested by the likes of Yours Truly--
the only evidence of his presence
a warm spot next to me
on my lonesome mattress.
His undetected exit exudes prowess
unparalleled by any male creature
put on God's green Earth.
I come to the conclusion
that not only was he human once
but must've been a woman.
It's a fitting fate for both of us.
The odds and stakes are noted.
Buddy-Boy, the lover
is paying for her sins.
If it's a sign of what's to come
I can only beg for mercy:
"Please, God. Not a rat-dog.
This bark still has some bite."
4.25.2011
Memento mori, Canis familiaris: A Scene at Three Corners.
The springtime grass is slowly greening as two female twenty-somethings stand in their mismatched scrubs; one in teal pants and a floral top, the other in a violent mish-mash of polka dots and pink. Flower Girl is smoking a cigarette and keeping dirty-blonde hair out of her eyes with the help of a glorified rubber band. Dottie's reading a dime novel through thick-rimmed glasses worthy of a nerd-rock superstar. Neither of them speak or look at one another, though there are only fifteen feet between them in the field behind the brick animal hospital where they've chosen to set their stage. Their left hands both hold leashes, one more element that binds the two unlikely co-conspirators. It's a snapshot worth a fortune to the right man.
A dog at the end of each leather strap paces until it tugs, then turns around and does the same in the opposite direction. These pets are clearly as medicated as their over-anxious owners sitting in the waiting room or on a beach in Bermuda. One of them wears a twitching beard, a terrier of some sort that'd almost look dignified if not for its nervous condition. The other's an unidentifiable mutt, the kind that'd loyally walk the kids to school if the parents didn't drive them to the bus stop every morning instead. Neither canine appears willing to squat and see to the duty that requires the hiring and bi-weekly payment of the two aloof girls too ashamed to lock eyes. We all die wasting time, and vice versa.
Uncaring, the reluctant employees remain relatively still, silently reveling in the fact that they're paid by the hour, not by the turd. Flowergirl-turned-perpetual-bridesmaid-who's-never-going-to-throw-the-backwards-bouquet-if-she-keeps-it-up-like-this takes a deep drag on her extra long menthol, an ex-boyfriend in the back of her brain working his way down into her lungs. The Bookworm tries to turn the page, one-handed, and drops her distraction of choice to the super-fertilized lawn, innocently oblivious to the fact that she's becoming quasi-fiction in the process.
(Billy's "Merely Players" speech comes to mind. That poor Danish prince was doomed from the start. Other than the crazy woman who does the world a favor by ridding it of her shadow it's the only thing in the script that's half-believable; even that's redundant to anyone who's faired enough flawed friendships and been blinded by the sun more than would like to be admitted for the sake of being the fool. Yorick, you ain't missing much.)
The light turns green, the observing deity pivots His right foot from the brake to the rubbed-raw accelerator while wanting the Smoking Girl's number and the Reader's hand in marriage, and the intersection of the creatures' Venn diagram is made clear: All three are waiting for shit to happen; all five feel trapped by present circumstances.
There. I'm finished. What have you done to realize your dream today?
A dog at the end of each leather strap paces until it tugs, then turns around and does the same in the opposite direction. These pets are clearly as medicated as their over-anxious owners sitting in the waiting room or on a beach in Bermuda. One of them wears a twitching beard, a terrier of some sort that'd almost look dignified if not for its nervous condition. The other's an unidentifiable mutt, the kind that'd loyally walk the kids to school if the parents didn't drive them to the bus stop every morning instead. Neither canine appears willing to squat and see to the duty that requires the hiring and bi-weekly payment of the two aloof girls too ashamed to lock eyes. We all die wasting time, and vice versa.
Uncaring, the reluctant employees remain relatively still, silently reveling in the fact that they're paid by the hour, not by the turd. Flowergirl-turned-perpetual-bridesmaid-who's-never-going-to-throw-the-backwards-bouquet-if-she-keeps-it-up-like-this takes a deep drag on her extra long menthol, an ex-boyfriend in the back of her brain working his way down into her lungs. The Bookworm tries to turn the page, one-handed, and drops her distraction of choice to the super-fertilized lawn, innocently oblivious to the fact that she's becoming quasi-fiction in the process.
(Billy's "Merely Players" speech comes to mind. That poor Danish prince was doomed from the start. Other than the crazy woman who does the world a favor by ridding it of her shadow it's the only thing in the script that's half-believable; even that's redundant to anyone who's faired enough flawed friendships and been blinded by the sun more than would like to be admitted for the sake of being the fool. Yorick, you ain't missing much.)
The light turns green, the observing deity pivots His right foot from the brake to the rubbed-raw accelerator while wanting the Smoking Girl's number and the Reader's hand in marriage, and the intersection of the creatures' Venn diagram is made clear: All three are waiting for shit to happen; all five feel trapped by present circumstances.
There. I'm finished. What have you done to realize your dream today?
The Home-Row Isn't Strong Enough to Rid the World of His Shadow
We were taking coffee break in one of the building's three designated lunch rooms, the four of us tired of choking on welding fumes and grateful for the reprieve. Our snacks were gone, our drinks down to one remaining chug. It was that awkward conversation time when no one wants to get up first and head back to the task at hand, but nobody wants their boots to drag last-in-line, either. Like a gift from God my phone rang. I stepped out into the hallway to answer it, a bit afraid since I didn't recognize the number aside from the middle three digits that told me it was a cellular line.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Michael?" a faintly Jewish-sounding voice whined. Could he have changed that much in a few years? A wife, a son; I guess he could've.
"Yes?" I asked more cautiously now that the chips were on the table
"Michael, it's your father! Where are you?" He sounded legitimately agitated at this mysterious Michael's absence. It couldn't have been whom I thought it was. That Christ-fearing coward couldn't care less about his first attempt at family, the holy hypocrite that he is and will be all the way to the grave. He started anew in one of life's rarely granted do-overs without as much as a card dropped in the mailbox. I'm not an afterthought he'll have in his precious afterlife. Sometimes that burns me as much as the flames of Hell someday will. There's comfort in knowing what's coming.
"You've got the wrong number. I was confused at first because my name is also Michael." My explanation trailed off. It didn't make sense to continue telling of the irony to a stranger in search of his son.
"Hmph," he half-laughed, half-snorted. This mystery man of mine hung up and I walked back into the break room. The three wise men were waiting: my stepfather, a forty-five-year-old friend who'd taught me the most in the pipe trade, and a man I'd worked for since the age of eighteen looked up from their styrofoam cups in silent anticipation of a report. I stood in the doorway, suggesting that I was ready to go back to work.
"He was looking for his son Michael," I told them. "Wanted to know where I'd been. I told him I've been wondering the same for the last four-and-a-half years." I felt the familiar muscle movement of that painkilling smirk used in defense of what lies beneath the bearded facade. It'd take a wrench or a bottle to pry it from my face. I know. I've tried it before.
The three of them laughed the laugh of the knowing uncomfortably, none of them wanting to admit their sources, and downed the rest of their beverages. Their chairs squeaked against the commercial tile floor as they rose to take on the rest of the day. None of us knew it'd be fourteen hours, but one of us knew he was lucky. As trite as it is, the woven blue-on-white framed number is right-- that thing on God and doors and windows.
Three or four fathers are better than one. Three or four anythings are better than one nothing. Three or four more sentences would make this more believable. I can't come up with them, though; there's too much truth in what really happened sometimes. Saved by a semicolon again.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Michael?" a faintly Jewish-sounding voice whined. Could he have changed that much in a few years? A wife, a son; I guess he could've.
"Yes?" I asked more cautiously now that the chips were on the table
"Michael, it's your father! Where are you?" He sounded legitimately agitated at this mysterious Michael's absence. It couldn't have been whom I thought it was. That Christ-fearing coward couldn't care less about his first attempt at family, the holy hypocrite that he is and will be all the way to the grave. He started anew in one of life's rarely granted do-overs without as much as a card dropped in the mailbox. I'm not an afterthought he'll have in his precious afterlife. Sometimes that burns me as much as the flames of Hell someday will. There's comfort in knowing what's coming.
"You've got the wrong number. I was confused at first because my name is also Michael." My explanation trailed off. It didn't make sense to continue telling of the irony to a stranger in search of his son.
"Hmph," he half-laughed, half-snorted. This mystery man of mine hung up and I walked back into the break room. The three wise men were waiting: my stepfather, a forty-five-year-old friend who'd taught me the most in the pipe trade, and a man I'd worked for since the age of eighteen looked up from their styrofoam cups in silent anticipation of a report. I stood in the doorway, suggesting that I was ready to go back to work.
"He was looking for his son Michael," I told them. "Wanted to know where I'd been. I told him I've been wondering the same for the last four-and-a-half years." I felt the familiar muscle movement of that painkilling smirk used in defense of what lies beneath the bearded facade. It'd take a wrench or a bottle to pry it from my face. I know. I've tried it before.
The three of them laughed the laugh of the knowing uncomfortably, none of them wanting to admit their sources, and downed the rest of their beverages. Their chairs squeaked against the commercial tile floor as they rose to take on the rest of the day. None of us knew it'd be fourteen hours, but one of us knew he was lucky. As trite as it is, the woven blue-on-white framed number is right-- that thing on God and doors and windows.
Three or four fathers are better than one. Three or four anythings are better than one nothing. Three or four more sentences would make this more believable. I can't come up with them, though; there's too much truth in what really happened sometimes. Saved by a semicolon again.
4.21.2011
SCANTRON
I'm made aware
inconveniently
that Leonard's sent a message.
Leo, we always called him
but no one calls him now--
not since the move down south
the arrest, the shotgun wedding and kids.
I ignore Leo, Leonard, whatever he's called
these days, continue my night
thinking back to the time
when we had to put our full names
one capital letter per box
on those state-examined testing sheets.
How perfectly LEONARD fit then;
how terribly he does now.
We're all in a high percentile
though the standards
like the outcomes
have changed.
When in doubt
pick C.
inconveniently
that Leonard's sent a message.
Leo, we always called him
but no one calls him now--
not since the move down south
the arrest, the shotgun wedding and kids.
I ignore Leo, Leonard, whatever he's called
these days, continue my night
thinking back to the time
when we had to put our full names
one capital letter per box
on those state-examined testing sheets.
How perfectly LEONARD fit then;
how terribly he does now.
We're all in a high percentile
though the standards
like the outcomes
have changed.
When in doubt
pick C.
4.19.2011
Slippery Freudian Slopes
"Do I still resemble her from this angle?" she asks, her head dipped back in the nest made by her pillow. His forearms shift uncomfortably on her hips as he lays prone diagonally to her naked form.
"Who?" he asks in a poor purchase of time. They never forget the slips, he thinks. It makes him wonder how people stay married for forty years. There must be a lot of lying involved, Oscar-worthy performances from the altar to the grave. Was he drunk and spilling his guts when he told her two years ago? Of course; he must've been. Why did he always fall into that trap? Dimitri Karamazov indeed, beard and scars to prove it.
"Becky," she answers coolly without looking down at his quivering brow, perhaps out of pity for a man on the run.
Her butchering of the name bothers him like it always does when someone fouls it up casually as if they knew the girl, but didn't. Not Becky, not Rebecca, but Beck. That was how she referred to herself eight years ago when they were young and in that first form of amateur love, and that is how she's to be addressed now as long as he has a say in the matter. There was something less feminine about her version of her name that made the two of them seem even more alike in addition to their dark features, sarcastic humor, and similar taste in music. She could take the Jack straight better than he could, though. He attributed it to her father, but neither of them spoke about it. Her career has probably moved her towards Rebecca status, but that doesn't matter now in the dim light of the apartment in which he still holds a candle. He remembers seeing a parochial school dedicated to Our Lady of Pompeii and laughing at its morbid implications. That's who Beck's become to him: a patron saint of Better Times buried in yards of ash. Eight years. God, has it been that long? he asks himself.
"You mean..." he begins, quickly realizing that correcting her nominal mistake will only make it worse. The vague opening words make it easy to recover. "...to tell me that you don't think I'm over her?" Brilliant. Masterful. Bond at his best.
Her eyes finally peel from the ceiling and stare down at his waiting countenance. Did she buy it? For that matter, did he? Only the coming reaction will tell. Eight years of locking a child in his heart. It seemed like yesterday, yet also eternity. The lovely, long-haired girl that made him who he is today, for better and worse and mostly unintentionally, still has a hand in his daily affairs. It makes him breathe more deeply. It relieves his troubled ghosts. They're still with us when they're gone. It's all an illusion, this passing of time and faces. We're not alone. If we'd reach out far enough they'd still be there in some way, shape, and form. The problem is that we're too afraid of what we'd find now, so we wait. We wait for something, not knowing what. Deliverance. Salvation. Another turn up at bat.
"I know you are, silly boy," she says with a half-hearted smile. "I just want to be as beautiful to you as she was."
The bait won't be taken, as tempting as it is with the current rush of nostalgia coursing through his veins. That's too rich for his blood, not worth an afternoon of apologies. She knows he hates this kind of fishing, but they're also both aware of who's got the upper hand.
He parries with a compliment he'd been saving for a rainy day, neither of which worth mentioning. She coos and gives a childlike kiss on his forehead.
When the smoke clears they make love in the lazy haze of the afternoon, neither of them saying names for some hours. It's a hell of a life sometimes, but someone's got to live it.
"Who?" he asks in a poor purchase of time. They never forget the slips, he thinks. It makes him wonder how people stay married for forty years. There must be a lot of lying involved, Oscar-worthy performances from the altar to the grave. Was he drunk and spilling his guts when he told her two years ago? Of course; he must've been. Why did he always fall into that trap? Dimitri Karamazov indeed, beard and scars to prove it.
"Becky," she answers coolly without looking down at his quivering brow, perhaps out of pity for a man on the run.
Her butchering of the name bothers him like it always does when someone fouls it up casually as if they knew the girl, but didn't. Not Becky, not Rebecca, but Beck. That was how she referred to herself eight years ago when they were young and in that first form of amateur love, and that is how she's to be addressed now as long as he has a say in the matter. There was something less feminine about her version of her name that made the two of them seem even more alike in addition to their dark features, sarcastic humor, and similar taste in music. She could take the Jack straight better than he could, though. He attributed it to her father, but neither of them spoke about it. Her career has probably moved her towards Rebecca status, but that doesn't matter now in the dim light of the apartment in which he still holds a candle. He remembers seeing a parochial school dedicated to Our Lady of Pompeii and laughing at its morbid implications. That's who Beck's become to him: a patron saint of Better Times buried in yards of ash. Eight years. God, has it been that long? he asks himself.
"You mean..." he begins, quickly realizing that correcting her nominal mistake will only make it worse. The vague opening words make it easy to recover. "...to tell me that you don't think I'm over her?" Brilliant. Masterful. Bond at his best.
Her eyes finally peel from the ceiling and stare down at his waiting countenance. Did she buy it? For that matter, did he? Only the coming reaction will tell. Eight years of locking a child in his heart. It seemed like yesterday, yet also eternity. The lovely, long-haired girl that made him who he is today, for better and worse and mostly unintentionally, still has a hand in his daily affairs. It makes him breathe more deeply. It relieves his troubled ghosts. They're still with us when they're gone. It's all an illusion, this passing of time and faces. We're not alone. If we'd reach out far enough they'd still be there in some way, shape, and form. The problem is that we're too afraid of what we'd find now, so we wait. We wait for something, not knowing what. Deliverance. Salvation. Another turn up at bat.
"I know you are, silly boy," she says with a half-hearted smile. "I just want to be as beautiful to you as she was."
The bait won't be taken, as tempting as it is with the current rush of nostalgia coursing through his veins. That's too rich for his blood, not worth an afternoon of apologies. She knows he hates this kind of fishing, but they're also both aware of who's got the upper hand.
He parries with a compliment he'd been saving for a rainy day, neither of which worth mentioning. She coos and gives a childlike kiss on his forehead.
When the smoke clears they make love in the lazy haze of the afternoon, neither of them saying names for some hours. It's a hell of a life sometimes, but someone's got to live it.
4.18.2011
Diurnal Emissions
Blood has gathered twice--
once in me, once on me.
It's no longer recreational
this crime scene in the name.
Add it to the list you keep:
The things we do for love, etc.
She wipes it up, a loving maid
throws it overhand
to the darkest corner of her room.
When the nightstand candle's blown
it smells like birthdays
for some seconds, but really
both of us are dying:
slowly, surely, surreptitiously.
They'll hang us high for these
sins and mortal treasons
but for now we'll savor
the afterwards bliss
and try to dream of better places
where the dream has yet to crash.
Don't judge the man who says
what you've only dared to think.
When the bricks fall you'll need friends.
The roster will surprise you.
once in me, once on me.
It's no longer recreational
this crime scene in the name.
Add it to the list you keep:
The things we do for love, etc.
She wipes it up, a loving maid
throws it overhand
to the darkest corner of her room.
When the nightstand candle's blown
it smells like birthdays
for some seconds, but really
both of us are dying:
slowly, surely, surreptitiously.
They'll hang us high for these
sins and mortal treasons
but for now we'll savor
the afterwards bliss
and try to dream of better places
where the dream has yet to crash.
Don't judge the man who says
what you've only dared to think.
When the bricks fall you'll need friends.
The roster will surprise you.
4.16.2011
Candy Wrapper Semaphores
The train's almost to the last stop and my aching back is thankful. There's a race going on in the novel on my lap. Three more pages to go before the end of the chapter; with a little gusto I can make it, big and small picture implied. The highlighter's been working overtime with this latest read. Updike's unapologetic words hit hard like polished stones honed from the same primordial observations that I've made through my travels and travesties, loving corrections humbly offered by an unmet friend who's barely been underground long enough for his hair to stop growing: another one of life's great misses. We're mostly born to die again, hopefully encountering some kindred prisoners on the way. My luck's been less than enviable. My best relationships are traditionally of the posthumous persuasion. It's a blessing and a curse to have this passion, this search for the word, though we wouldn't have it any other way.
I flip a page and glance up at the young man walking down the aisle with a box of chocolates in his hands. "Two for four, three for five," he gently pleads in that modest voice only convincing when coming from a black male's soothing vocal cords. It must be reminiscent of their slave days. The kind, crooning Negro was harder to whip-- Darwin's theories of adaptation and survival personified. I reach for my wallet as he approaches. I know that I'll submit. Reparations for a crime my ancestors weren't here to commit. Besides, who doesn't like chocolate?
"Do you have change for a twenty?" I ask with the slow-tongued, naive drawl a cow would have if it could speak. It's a set-up, a gift from the gods of gullible men. He'll knock this one out of the park, and I can't blame him. It's my fault. It always is.
"How about six candies for ten?" he suggests, his soft tone slightly more forceful than before. "That'll buy three basketball uniforms and get me that much closer to the All Expenses Paid Vacation." He doesn't name the destination or the team. A good actor, a good liar, would've noticed this lack of detail and seen through his ruse, but I'm no Marlon Brando; more importantly, he's already got me on the run.
"I really only want three..." I futilely whine, my voice drenched in defeat.
He doesn't even have to say anything, just gives me those watery chocolate eyes. The man is no boy, but still he plays the helpless card. It wins the round expertly. Aces and eights plague my hand. I'm spread too thin to put up a fight.
"Give me ten back," I say as he lowers the box so I can select my unwanted candies.
"Any six you want," he offers as a consolation prize. I choose three peanut butter-filled affairs, though I know they won't travel well, and three bags of hard-shelled chocolate morsels.
"Thanks," he says as he raises his wares and makes his way down the aisle, not bothering to stop and peddle at any other seats. He's found his sucker. He's made his money. For the lousy six dollars he's spent on candy at a convenience store he's made another four in profit. I'm the saddest proponent of capitalism. I'm an honorary member of the NAACP. I'm a laid-off, broke philanthropist with a heart too big to say No. But I'm me, and that's how I want it. It's the one thing they can't take.
Brakes come on and slow the train. I shove my book into my bag and cram the candy in afterwards. It'll be squished or melt before it meets any mouth, mine or otherwise. It doesn't feel right to rise with the rest of the riders. My foolish contribution to the Harlem Hustler who got on at 125th Street has rendered me unworthy of beating any fellow travelers to the opening metal mouths at the ends of our train car. I've been duped and deserved to wait for my turn. Hustle-Man, of course, is far from the scene. I'm a joke he'll tell at dinner. I'm a pawn that fell for ghetto glory. I'm the reason he keeps swindling his way through the world: opportunity.
I decide to use the bathroom on the empty train since the one at the station's a slophouse and I have my walking cut out for me. In the brief time it took me to make water and wash my hands the train's already started to fill with new occupants headed in the other direction. By the time I wedge my bag through the double-doors all of the booths have at least one seat taken. Some of the passengers pretend to be sleeping so no one asks them to move their belongings and make room. The passive-aggressive grind rumbles on: shining, modern, efficient, unchanged.
As I make my way through the bustling city my bag begins to feel like it's carrying lead. According to law, though, it isn't. I trudge on faithfully en route to my destination, turning onto a side street to avoid the heavy human traffic. A well-kept homeless man counts change on the quiet sidewalk. He could easily pass for the Candy-Man's father, close to the appropriate age and overall demeanor. There's no smell as I walk by; he's one of the better survivors. Maybe they really are related. I turn and walk back towards him. It seems the right thing to do. Who needs that much chocolate?
"Want some candy?" I ask, surprisingly even-toned. I'm never that good at appealing to strangers. It comes off so unsure.
"Huh? Nah. No, thank you," he replies, though the comma between No and Thank you may not actually be there. He sounds as though I've bothered him. Maybe he lost count of his change due to my interruption. The bottle of hooch will have to wait that much longer. Food, it appears, is not on his menu, even the elusive free type of sustenance. It's freedom he seeks in the form of a glass flask. I can't begrudge him that, even with an uptown son that much closer to new basketball uniforms and a free vacation courtesy of a weak-spined tourist.
I do an about-face, re-find my stride, and smile down at the pavement. We don't all lace up dead men's boots. We won't all jump in the same grave. The world still has its innovators. Energy flows in accordance with effort. Home's not hard to imagine. And chocolate takes longer to melt than I thought.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Is Rich" by John Updike.
I flip a page and glance up at the young man walking down the aisle with a box of chocolates in his hands. "Two for four, three for five," he gently pleads in that modest voice only convincing when coming from a black male's soothing vocal cords. It must be reminiscent of their slave days. The kind, crooning Negro was harder to whip-- Darwin's theories of adaptation and survival personified. I reach for my wallet as he approaches. I know that I'll submit. Reparations for a crime my ancestors weren't here to commit. Besides, who doesn't like chocolate?
"Do you have change for a twenty?" I ask with the slow-tongued, naive drawl a cow would have if it could speak. It's a set-up, a gift from the gods of gullible men. He'll knock this one out of the park, and I can't blame him. It's my fault. It always is.
"How about six candies for ten?" he suggests, his soft tone slightly more forceful than before. "That'll buy three basketball uniforms and get me that much closer to the All Expenses Paid Vacation." He doesn't name the destination or the team. A good actor, a good liar, would've noticed this lack of detail and seen through his ruse, but I'm no Marlon Brando; more importantly, he's already got me on the run.
"I really only want three..." I futilely whine, my voice drenched in defeat.
He doesn't even have to say anything, just gives me those watery chocolate eyes. The man is no boy, but still he plays the helpless card. It wins the round expertly. Aces and eights plague my hand. I'm spread too thin to put up a fight.
"Give me ten back," I say as he lowers the box so I can select my unwanted candies.
"Any six you want," he offers as a consolation prize. I choose three peanut butter-filled affairs, though I know they won't travel well, and three bags of hard-shelled chocolate morsels.
"Thanks," he says as he raises his wares and makes his way down the aisle, not bothering to stop and peddle at any other seats. He's found his sucker. He's made his money. For the lousy six dollars he's spent on candy at a convenience store he's made another four in profit. I'm the saddest proponent of capitalism. I'm an honorary member of the NAACP. I'm a laid-off, broke philanthropist with a heart too big to say No. But I'm me, and that's how I want it. It's the one thing they can't take.
Brakes come on and slow the train. I shove my book into my bag and cram the candy in afterwards. It'll be squished or melt before it meets any mouth, mine or otherwise. It doesn't feel right to rise with the rest of the riders. My foolish contribution to the Harlem Hustler who got on at 125th Street has rendered me unworthy of beating any fellow travelers to the opening metal mouths at the ends of our train car. I've been duped and deserved to wait for my turn. Hustle-Man, of course, is far from the scene. I'm a joke he'll tell at dinner. I'm a pawn that fell for ghetto glory. I'm the reason he keeps swindling his way through the world: opportunity.
I decide to use the bathroom on the empty train since the one at the station's a slophouse and I have my walking cut out for me. In the brief time it took me to make water and wash my hands the train's already started to fill with new occupants headed in the other direction. By the time I wedge my bag through the double-doors all of the booths have at least one seat taken. Some of the passengers pretend to be sleeping so no one asks them to move their belongings and make room. The passive-aggressive grind rumbles on: shining, modern, efficient, unchanged.
As I make my way through the bustling city my bag begins to feel like it's carrying lead. According to law, though, it isn't. I trudge on faithfully en route to my destination, turning onto a side street to avoid the heavy human traffic. A well-kept homeless man counts change on the quiet sidewalk. He could easily pass for the Candy-Man's father, close to the appropriate age and overall demeanor. There's no smell as I walk by; he's one of the better survivors. Maybe they really are related. I turn and walk back towards him. It seems the right thing to do. Who needs that much chocolate?
"Want some candy?" I ask, surprisingly even-toned. I'm never that good at appealing to strangers. It comes off so unsure.
"Huh? Nah. No, thank you," he replies, though the comma between No and Thank you may not actually be there. He sounds as though I've bothered him. Maybe he lost count of his change due to my interruption. The bottle of hooch will have to wait that much longer. Food, it appears, is not on his menu, even the elusive free type of sustenance. It's freedom he seeks in the form of a glass flask. I can't begrudge him that, even with an uptown son that much closer to new basketball uniforms and a free vacation courtesy of a weak-spined tourist.
I do an about-face, re-find my stride, and smile down at the pavement. We don't all lace up dead men's boots. We won't all jump in the same grave. The world still has its innovators. Energy flows in accordance with effort. Home's not hard to imagine. And chocolate takes longer to melt than I thought.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Is Rich" by John Updike.
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