Woke up with a sweetheart
I couldn't do real justice.
"I smell it on you, baby,"
but methinks she meant the booze.
Seven Long Island Iced Teas
times six shots in a drink
equals I'll be slung low in the saddle
for forty-two dull hours.
At some point
a parade goes by
possibly in honor
of the best bender ever
or the biggest charlatan.
The snare drum tortures on
in cadence, my antics unappreciated.
I pray for merciful silence
until my guts scream that they're mummies.
Stumbling to the icebox
culls a phrase my father said:
"Love the sinner
hate the sin,"
or maybe that's the opposite.
A squad of flies
swirls about
practicing maneuvers
for when their chance will come
to feast and lay their eggs.
There's something rotten in this place
and I'm sure it's me.
I stay safe deep in sleep all day.
An ex calls by mistake.
9.30.2012
9.28.2012
Anthrophallogy
There's a roving tribe
in east Mongolia
who don't take "No"
for an answer.
When pillaging villages
no one is murdered
and prisoners aren't
the agenda.
A foe is tethered
once he's been disarmed
and a slice is made
in his torso--
typically back near the kidneys
though it's been done
to the cheeks
on occasion.
It wouldn't be civil
to say what comes next
but believe when I say
it's effective.
What happens in huts
burns through the night
as the shame is imposed
by the victors
on men on their knees
who scream at the moon
and curse the day
they first noticed
what manhood is for
and the pain it can cause
if you fuck with the wrong
east Mongolians.
in east Mongolia
who don't take "No"
for an answer.
When pillaging villages
no one is murdered
and prisoners aren't
the agenda.
A foe is tethered
once he's been disarmed
and a slice is made
in his torso--
typically back near the kidneys
though it's been done
to the cheeks
on occasion.
It wouldn't be civil
to say what comes next
but believe when I say
it's effective.
What happens in huts
burns through the night
as the shame is imposed
by the victors
on men on their knees
who scream at the moon
and curse the day
they first noticed
what manhood is for
and the pain it can cause
if you fuck with the wrong
east Mongolians.
9.25.2012
Notes from Under Floorboards
Jim takes a break from his one-man engagement party in the bowels of his bachelor's bathroom. While reaching for a fresh roll of toilet paper in the vanity he notices a chink of light coming from down below. "Funny," he snorts into the sink as he scrubs his hands under scalding hot water as though they owe him money. Very few people, let alone body parts, owe Jim any money. That end of the bargain isn't in his blood.
It comes as no surprise that the couch is as he left it. A half-empty mug dies on the second-hand coffee table that he rescued from the dumpster. Multiple servings of his favorite concoction of Canadian whiskey and flat ginger ale have been beckoning him for most of the evening, but none of them have scratched the itch. They say the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different outcome. Jim's a repeater, as original as he'd like to think he is.
Two maraschino cherries await him at the bottom of the glass, not that he needs additional motivation to lessen the liquid's level. He'd also never admit to being an alcoholic. "That requires drinking every night," he tells himself. Years later it will come out that Jim was a lot of things he never claimed to be; some good, some bad, some best left to be determined by his Maker. Self-evaluation: the hardest glance during brushing ones teeth. Vampires, the only immortal lovers, have worked it into their contract to be invisible in mirrors. There's method to their madness. There's merit to their claim. Jim managed to avoid his reflection while taking his bathroom break, but now that he's back on his sofa he's safe; only it's not more sitting and sipping that Jim wants. Another vice is calling his name. The cocktail's left to fester as the door locks shut behind him.
He lights up on his stoop, leans against the wall, turns his head, sees a spider, and jumps. An owl-like twist of the neck is employed as he inspects his surroundings to make sure no one noticed. They didn't. They don't. Jim blows a lungful of smoke at the spider. It doesn't move-- a trooper; a realist. A few nights ago Jim took a cigarette lighter to the spider's relative, but that was when his neighbor was joining him for a puff. There's no one to impress now. Jim's mostly at peace, at least on the outside. He gives the arachnid another gust of second-hand smoke and ponders the possibility of its appreciation for the rush. Maybe he likes it like I used to, Jim thinks.
But no golden silence can last more than a moment. Jim's is interrupted by the tell-tale timbre of female laughter coming from the lot on the other side of Main Street; attractive women with the nerve to have fun so late on a Sunday. "But they're allowed to," says a voice in Jim's head. "And I'm supposed to stand here on my portion of rented real estate," the voice says, this time through the butt of a menthol cigarette. Passers by heading to the restaurant on the ground floor of Jim's apartment building often look at him as though he's trespassing by being in front of his doorway. Two weeks ago, days before giving birth to a child he wished had been his, an old flame and her new husband strolled down his block of sidewalk, saw him smoking his post-commute Marlboro, and settled for the eatery immediately accesible since it wouldn't require crossing his path even though no one goes to that establishment. He didn't have his words picked, but the adrenaline dumped in his stomach made him rest assured that they would've been perfect. It was a moment meant for Bogart. Nothing bitter. Nothing nasty. Just a simple "How d'ya do?" from one exhaling human to another-- the way it should've been six years ago when Jim still had a go of it. He held himself more tightly than usual that night, but didn't succumb to sobbing. His skull would not allow it. He's a man of contemplation before a bleeding heart.
They're all getting married now; all of them at once, a barrage. Does the three months' salary engagement ring rule still apply in this economy? Jim assumes it doesn't, though he's not known for social graces. Still, he'd like to get off easy-- the way he used to; the way those girls on the other side of the street will pretend to later on that night. But betrothal isn't in his cards anymore, not with the hand of Aces and Eights he's haphazardly dealt himself since the age of eighteen. Jim would have an easier time selling ice skates to a paraplegic.
The smell of burning cotton alerts him that his smoke break is over. He flicks a half-burnt filter at a storm drain, goes wide right.
Once back inside he heads to the bathroom, swats the lightswitch, reaches for the toilet paper in the cabinet below the sink, and is distracted by a light coming from a missing sliver of wood in the floor. "Funny," Jim croaks as he rubs off the first three layers of skin cells from his hands, red like steaming lobsters, in the comfort of the left handle's heat.
And he's right, maybe for the first time of the night, for the man with the blessed hex of seeing humor in the macabre lives in the basement apartment.
It comes as no surprise that the couch is as he left it. A half-empty mug dies on the second-hand coffee table that he rescued from the dumpster. Multiple servings of his favorite concoction of Canadian whiskey and flat ginger ale have been beckoning him for most of the evening, but none of them have scratched the itch. They say the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different outcome. Jim's a repeater, as original as he'd like to think he is.
Two maraschino cherries await him at the bottom of the glass, not that he needs additional motivation to lessen the liquid's level. He'd also never admit to being an alcoholic. "That requires drinking every night," he tells himself. Years later it will come out that Jim was a lot of things he never claimed to be; some good, some bad, some best left to be determined by his Maker. Self-evaluation: the hardest glance during brushing ones teeth. Vampires, the only immortal lovers, have worked it into their contract to be invisible in mirrors. There's method to their madness. There's merit to their claim. Jim managed to avoid his reflection while taking his bathroom break, but now that he's back on his sofa he's safe; only it's not more sitting and sipping that Jim wants. Another vice is calling his name. The cocktail's left to fester as the door locks shut behind him.
He lights up on his stoop, leans against the wall, turns his head, sees a spider, and jumps. An owl-like twist of the neck is employed as he inspects his surroundings to make sure no one noticed. They didn't. They don't. Jim blows a lungful of smoke at the spider. It doesn't move-- a trooper; a realist. A few nights ago Jim took a cigarette lighter to the spider's relative, but that was when his neighbor was joining him for a puff. There's no one to impress now. Jim's mostly at peace, at least on the outside. He gives the arachnid another gust of second-hand smoke and ponders the possibility of its appreciation for the rush. Maybe he likes it like I used to, Jim thinks.
But no golden silence can last more than a moment. Jim's is interrupted by the tell-tale timbre of female laughter coming from the lot on the other side of Main Street; attractive women with the nerve to have fun so late on a Sunday. "But they're allowed to," says a voice in Jim's head. "And I'm supposed to stand here on my portion of rented real estate," the voice says, this time through the butt of a menthol cigarette. Passers by heading to the restaurant on the ground floor of Jim's apartment building often look at him as though he's trespassing by being in front of his doorway. Two weeks ago, days before giving birth to a child he wished had been his, an old flame and her new husband strolled down his block of sidewalk, saw him smoking his post-commute Marlboro, and settled for the eatery immediately accesible since it wouldn't require crossing his path even though no one goes to that establishment. He didn't have his words picked, but the adrenaline dumped in his stomach made him rest assured that they would've been perfect. It was a moment meant for Bogart. Nothing bitter. Nothing nasty. Just a simple "How d'ya do?" from one exhaling human to another-- the way it should've been six years ago when Jim still had a go of it. He held himself more tightly than usual that night, but didn't succumb to sobbing. His skull would not allow it. He's a man of contemplation before a bleeding heart.
They're all getting married now; all of them at once, a barrage. Does the three months' salary engagement ring rule still apply in this economy? Jim assumes it doesn't, though he's not known for social graces. Still, he'd like to get off easy-- the way he used to; the way those girls on the other side of the street will pretend to later on that night. But betrothal isn't in his cards anymore, not with the hand of Aces and Eights he's haphazardly dealt himself since the age of eighteen. Jim would have an easier time selling ice skates to a paraplegic.
The smell of burning cotton alerts him that his smoke break is over. He flicks a half-burnt filter at a storm drain, goes wide right.
Once back inside he heads to the bathroom, swats the lightswitch, reaches for the toilet paper in the cabinet below the sink, and is distracted by a light coming from a missing sliver of wood in the floor. "Funny," Jim croaks as he rubs off the first three layers of skin cells from his hands, red like steaming lobsters, in the comfort of the left handle's heat.
And he's right, maybe for the first time of the night, for the man with the blessed hex of seeing humor in the macabre lives in the basement apartment.
9.21.2012
This Car Almost Climbed Mt. Washington
As we still see
the same toxic sunsets
the rest of our senses
ignore time and miles
as only confessed
when the pen and sword drop
like the message she sent
when I ran out of wine:
"Sometimes at night
I don't know if I smell you
or if we entwined
along the way, Babe."
I answer with vigor
that's fueled by the spins.
A radio man on a torn battefield
beats wildly on his handset receiver
to call in an airstrike
and level the ground
but that napalm don't come
and the war rages on
without Heaven's mercy
rained down like the Rapture.
You're damn right we melted.
Those years of our lives
won't go down as Missing in Action
for me.
the same toxic sunsets
the rest of our senses
ignore time and miles
as only confessed
when the pen and sword drop
like the message she sent
when I ran out of wine:
"Sometimes at night
I don't know if I smell you
or if we entwined
along the way, Babe."
I answer with vigor
that's fueled by the spins.
A radio man on a torn battefield
beats wildly on his handset receiver
to call in an airstrike
and level the ground
but that napalm don't come
and the war rages on
without Heaven's mercy
rained down like the Rapture.
You're damn right we melted.
Those years of our lives
won't go down as Missing in Action
for me.
9.20.2012
We All Live In a Foil Submarine
Hidden behind my landlord's cupboard
I have live-action tapes
in Technicolor
of the Beatles
confessing their farce.
They did it all for pussy;
all of it.
George couldn't play a G chord.
Ringo was an alien.
John and Paul
were one and the same
aside from the mirrors
an epic effort in stage effects
to split a man in two.
They didn't even inhale
but pretended since the Stones did.
Lucy flew the mothership
that dropped Ringo off.
Sgt. Pepper was the nickname
of a local kleptomaniac
they left back home in Greece.
John-Paul said, in the most
disturbing excerpt
"There are far few things more puzzling
than staring down at vastly
asymmetrical labia gripping at your girth,"
end quote.
Yoko cackled for weeks over this
tape rolling
and sold it as a record.
Ask Ike.
He'll tell you twice.
Love had everything to do with it, Tina.
But don't be fooled.
The Beatles wanted more than to hold your hand.
I have live-action tapes
in Technicolor
of the Beatles
confessing their farce.
They did it all for pussy;
all of it.
George couldn't play a G chord.
Ringo was an alien.
John and Paul
were one and the same
aside from the mirrors
an epic effort in stage effects
to split a man in two.
They didn't even inhale
but pretended since the Stones did.
Lucy flew the mothership
that dropped Ringo off.
Sgt. Pepper was the nickname
of a local kleptomaniac
they left back home in Greece.
John-Paul said, in the most
disturbing excerpt
"There are far few things more puzzling
than staring down at vastly
asymmetrical labia gripping at your girth,"
end quote.
Yoko cackled for weeks over this
tape rolling
and sold it as a record.
Ask Ike.
He'll tell you twice.
Love had everything to do with it, Tina.
But don't be fooled.
The Beatles wanted more than to hold your hand.
9.19.2012
Career Ender
My death came as news
for which I wasn't ready.
Who ever is?
How can one be?
It was more of a revelation
than a shock to the system.
A lot of things suddenly made sense:
The feeling of transparency;
the steady loss of friends;
declining luck with women;
an indestructible liver;
the turkey vulture
I'd seen previously that day
that flew off before I could avenge
the rabbit it was eviscerating
on the double yellow;
the rude and common tendency
for sneezes to go unblessed.
No wonder. I'm invisible.
I've been on borrowed time
since high school.
A car squeals by behind me
loose fanbelt with an owner
too lazy to have it fixed.
The 9/11 memorial flag is
hung in the display case
of the shop window I'm staring through
while my eyes are transfixed by the name
I chose long ago to be myself in stories
or any other time when I'd rather not be me
like at dog fights, clinics, short-stay motel rooms.
It's printed in white on a red stripe
along with the thousands of others.
One among many, none of whom I knew
until now.
The backlighting goes out
as if on cue with fate.
My reading is curtailed
so I turn from the dark storefront
leaving my dead nom de guerre
to rest there with his peers.
And to think they call that other old stuff
Depression Glass.
If I still believed in a God
that was more than a spiteful voyeur
I would've said a prayer
for a man I'd never met.
Instead I muttered
"Sorry.
Sorry for wasting your time."
And I was
and I am
but at least now
pieces fit.
for which I wasn't ready.
Who ever is?
How can one be?
It was more of a revelation
than a shock to the system.
A lot of things suddenly made sense:
The feeling of transparency;
the steady loss of friends;
declining luck with women;
an indestructible liver;
the turkey vulture
I'd seen previously that day
that flew off before I could avenge
the rabbit it was eviscerating
on the double yellow;
the rude and common tendency
for sneezes to go unblessed.
No wonder. I'm invisible.
I've been on borrowed time
since high school.
A car squeals by behind me
loose fanbelt with an owner
too lazy to have it fixed.
The 9/11 memorial flag is
hung in the display case
of the shop window I'm staring through
while my eyes are transfixed by the name
I chose long ago to be myself in stories
or any other time when I'd rather not be me
like at dog fights, clinics, short-stay motel rooms.
It's printed in white on a red stripe
along with the thousands of others.
One among many, none of whom I knew
until now.
The backlighting goes out
as if on cue with fate.
My reading is curtailed
so I turn from the dark storefront
leaving my dead nom de guerre
to rest there with his peers.
And to think they call that other old stuff
Depression Glass.
If I still believed in a God
that was more than a spiteful voyeur
I would've said a prayer
for a man I'd never met.
Instead I muttered
"Sorry.
Sorry for wasting your time."
And I was
and I am
but at least now
pieces fit.
9.18.2012
Human Fire Hydrant
I swear they do it on purpose--
little hints left
for the next female guest
staking some sort of claim
though it's pointless.
Bachelor X plucks a hair
from the bathroom sink
but misses the clip
behind the soap dish.
Healthcare Professional Z
(since they always are anymore)
knows where to look
finds artifact/evidence/marker
and is left with two options:
ask Bachelor X now
or wait until he's down.
The veterans go for the latter.
Bachelor X can't tell you
how many straggling bobby pins
he's thrown away over years
which is odd since he rarely
sees them removed.
He used to leave them around
for awhile, a faint female touch
in an otherwise dank lair
reeking of testosterone
but their perches on windowsills
bookshelves, and in the medicine cabinet
soon became points of contention.
They can't be pawned off.
The girls know the difference.
The tokens had to go
which was hard
since he barely
noticed them any longer.
But in the morning
when they slink
for fear of the awkward
dodging of breakfast
all that matters
is that priceless stretch
revealing cool, untouched
bedsheet real estate
that lulls him back to sleep
in a dream that's free of nurses
and other folks bent
on saving the damned.
little hints left
for the next female guest
staking some sort of claim
though it's pointless.
Bachelor X plucks a hair
from the bathroom sink
but misses the clip
behind the soap dish.
Healthcare Professional Z
(since they always are anymore)
knows where to look
finds artifact/evidence/marker
and is left with two options:
ask Bachelor X now
or wait until he's down.
The veterans go for the latter.
Bachelor X can't tell you
how many straggling bobby pins
he's thrown away over years
which is odd since he rarely
sees them removed.
He used to leave them around
for awhile, a faint female touch
in an otherwise dank lair
reeking of testosterone
but their perches on windowsills
bookshelves, and in the medicine cabinet
soon became points of contention.
They can't be pawned off.
The girls know the difference.
The tokens had to go
which was hard
since he barely
noticed them any longer.
But in the morning
when they slink
for fear of the awkward
dodging of breakfast
all that matters
is that priceless stretch
revealing cool, untouched
bedsheet real estate
that lulls him back to sleep
in a dream that's free of nurses
and other folks bent
on saving the damned.
9.15.2012
Heterochromia
They sneer at the holes
we left in their stockings
and cringe at the thought
of lilies we picked
then wonder why pseudocide
seems like the option
that best fits the likes
of lustful old pricks
who won't put it down
but can't keep it up
for fear that the naming of names
will prolong
the alibi's epilogue
the salts' lonely song
that's hummed in their quarters
aboard moon-drawn ships.
we left in their stockings
and cringe at the thought
of lilies we picked
then wonder why pseudocide
seems like the option
that best fits the likes
of lustful old pricks
who won't put it down
but can't keep it up
for fear that the naming of names
will prolong
the alibi's epilogue
the salts' lonely song
that's hummed in their quarters
aboard moon-drawn ships.
Tread
She looks like the beat
of beauty's tight drum
sitting on the curb
near my corner pub
and I look
at her
through dogshit irises.
Her knack for bedside manor
must bleed into the realm
of awkward small talk
with exes.
We skate over topics
like landmines
each more fruitless
than the last.
"How's your mom?"
"Haven't spoken in a month."
"How's work?"
"Laid off."
But she takes it in stride
as she has all along
and I take it however I can get it.
It's a shame I wasn't so
palatable at the time
when it mattered.
Que sera and such.
Her partner in crime
sucks the last of her smoke
and heads back toward
the commotion indoors.
The hug is coming.
I feel it.
It does.
A mutual pecking of cheeks
is followed by a quick one
on the lips, mouths closed
of course
in one of the rare frames
that the Editor spares
in the cutting room
whether or not
it's deserved.
We're not here for long enough
to let the union or untying of knots
dictate what slips by.
"Be good."
"Take it easy."
And that's how those
three flights up
to my apartment felt
for the first time all day.
It's not so bad
this sleeping alone
as long as you know
they're still out there.
of beauty's tight drum
sitting on the curb
near my corner pub
and I look
at her
through dogshit irises.
Her knack for bedside manor
must bleed into the realm
of awkward small talk
with exes.
We skate over topics
like landmines
each more fruitless
than the last.
"How's your mom?"
"Haven't spoken in a month."
"How's work?"
"Laid off."
But she takes it in stride
as she has all along
and I take it however I can get it.
It's a shame I wasn't so
palatable at the time
when it mattered.
Que sera and such.
Her partner in crime
sucks the last of her smoke
and heads back toward
the commotion indoors.
The hug is coming.
I feel it.
It does.
A mutual pecking of cheeks
is followed by a quick one
on the lips, mouths closed
of course
in one of the rare frames
that the Editor spares
in the cutting room
whether or not
it's deserved.
We're not here for long enough
to let the union or untying of knots
dictate what slips by.
"Be good."
"Take it easy."
And that's how those
three flights up
to my apartment felt
for the first time all day.
It's not so bad
this sleeping alone
as long as you know
they're still out there.
9.12.2012
Urban Planning At Its Finest
Traffic on Verplanck
was unusually fucked.
It must've been the tail-end
of commuter train stop exodus.
A voice he used to recognize
sprawled out to his right.
He snapped the first menthol
while fumbling to light it.
The second slipped from fingers
flicking ash at pavement.
If the song on the stereo
didn't require a third
he would've cut his losses
but he's never taken hints
on what's not meant to be.
His lids slammed shut
at his favorite, final verse
but his right foot
paid no attention.
"What're you doing?"
his passenger asked, pawing at the door.
"Open your eyes, you're driving!
You'll put us eight feet under!"
But that cancer tasted too sweet
to lose his bet with memory
or succumb to schizophrenia.
He always won
on borrowed time
just as we all live.
was unusually fucked.
It must've been the tail-end
of commuter train stop exodus.
A voice he used to recognize
sprawled out to his right.
He snapped the first menthol
while fumbling to light it.
The second slipped from fingers
flicking ash at pavement.
If the song on the stereo
didn't require a third
he would've cut his losses
but he's never taken hints
on what's not meant to be.
His lids slammed shut
at his favorite, final verse
but his right foot
paid no attention.
"What're you doing?"
his passenger asked, pawing at the door.
"Open your eyes, you're driving!
You'll put us eight feet under!"
But that cancer tasted too sweet
to lose his bet with memory
or succumb to schizophrenia.
He always won
on borrowed time
just as we all live.
9.09.2012
How the Best of Them Bite It
"They had their barf bags out
and ready," he said of
his fellow Cessna-mates
on the flight back to Vegas
from the Grandest of Canyons
twenty years younger, the blink of an eye.
"The captain yanked the yoke
back steady, but didn't seem
too worried."
There were two men
accustomed to turbulence
onboard-- one more
formally trained than the other
though neither shy of seeing it.
"A couple next to me asked
how I stayed so calm.
'What are you gonna do
if it goes down?
Nothin','
I told them
and went back to my brochure."
He pointed his nose up
as he does at the end
of a story, crystalline blue
eyes much younger
than their true age.
Tufts of red hair poked out
from under his ragged welding hat
and looked orange
with the end of summer
shining through.
There was no denying
his stance in the world.
Off the record, I was jealous.
You can tell when a man's
embellished a tale.
There tends to be
a flutter of lashes, averted pupils
a twitch in the corner of lips.
There wasn't.
It's sage advice of the free variety
like the old man
on his deathbed
surrounded by distraught kin
who replies wisely
when asked what to do
when he passes:
"Last one out shut the door."
and ready," he said of
his fellow Cessna-mates
on the flight back to Vegas
from the Grandest of Canyons
twenty years younger, the blink of an eye.
"The captain yanked the yoke
back steady, but didn't seem
too worried."
There were two men
accustomed to turbulence
onboard-- one more
formally trained than the other
though neither shy of seeing it.
"A couple next to me asked
how I stayed so calm.
'What are you gonna do
if it goes down?
Nothin','
I told them
and went back to my brochure."
He pointed his nose up
as he does at the end
of a story, crystalline blue
eyes much younger
than their true age.
Tufts of red hair poked out
from under his ragged welding hat
and looked orange
with the end of summer
shining through.
There was no denying
his stance in the world.
Off the record, I was jealous.
You can tell when a man's
embellished a tale.
There tends to be
a flutter of lashes, averted pupils
a twitch in the corner of lips.
There wasn't.
It's sage advice of the free variety
like the old man
on his deathbed
surrounded by distraught kin
who replies wisely
when asked what to do
when he passes:
"Last one out shut the door."
9.08.2012
Wade
He stood framed by trees
in a trackside creek
along our highway home
naked aside from his unbleached skivvies
with skin the color of Dutch cocoa
and the chisel marks of breeding
from a time when his oppression
was more blatant.
The look on his face
showed stone cold intent
though I'll never know
what called him
to the water that September
in the north side of the Bronx
hidden there in a polluted stream
that only a middle-aged, God-fearing Negro
could appreciate.
If my head had been turned
any other protractor reading
than ninety degrees
I never would have seen him
fly by at seventy-five.
My life would be the same.
I've read of John the Baptist.
There are far more frightening demigods
I've birthed inside my skull
with less imposing noms de guerre
usually ending in vowels.
It's something of a sobriquet
the codes used for each other.
The witch's minions had it right:
"All we own we owe."
in a trackside creek
along our highway home
naked aside from his unbleached skivvies
with skin the color of Dutch cocoa
and the chisel marks of breeding
from a time when his oppression
was more blatant.
The look on his face
showed stone cold intent
though I'll never know
what called him
to the water that September
in the north side of the Bronx
hidden there in a polluted stream
that only a middle-aged, God-fearing Negro
could appreciate.
If my head had been turned
any other protractor reading
than ninety degrees
I never would have seen him
fly by at seventy-five.
My life would be the same.
I've read of John the Baptist.
There are far more frightening demigods
I've birthed inside my skull
with less imposing noms de guerre
usually ending in vowels.
It's something of a sobriquet
the codes used for each other.
The witch's minions had it right:
"All we own we owe."
9.04.2012
Bender Crescendo
[Timpani rise to the speed of human wrists.
The Strings forget the key.
Woodwinds lose the tempo.
The Brass all clashes.]
"You have me
now," she says.
[Fade to clarinets, sotto voce.]
The Strings forget the key.
Woodwinds lose the tempo.
The Brass all clashes.]
"You have me
now," she says.
[Fade to clarinets, sotto voce.]
9.03.2012
New Fire in Old Forge
Fraudulent photos
show them smiling
under shades
laying face-down
on that dock
their toes not touching
the tea dumped in the lake
with a crossword and a book
between them, anything to distract
two hapless fools
from the writing on the mattress
clouds shaped like elephants
and the growing of her breasts
which would shortly shrink
to normal size
then wither with their love.
There are some things
for which one can't forgive.
The remainder gets trapped
in a bottle and shelved
until the liver calls for poison.
What do children know of casting stones?
What constitutes a child?
A clump of cells
we're stuck in
'til the Reaper calls us home.
show them smiling
under shades
laying face-down
on that dock
their toes not touching
the tea dumped in the lake
with a crossword and a book
between them, anything to distract
two hapless fools
from the writing on the mattress
clouds shaped like elephants
and the growing of her breasts
which would shortly shrink
to normal size
then wither with their love.
There are some things
for which one can't forgive.
The remainder gets trapped
in a bottle and shelved
until the liver calls for poison.
What do children know of casting stones?
What constitutes a child?
A clump of cells
we're stuck in
'til the Reaper calls us home.
9.02.2012
Swallowed Sayonara
It'll be so funny, Love
at our nuptials
when I mentally confess
to responding
to your drunken masquerades
even though
you wouldn't
do the same for me
sober.
And then like wilted letters
foreign fibs go
to the scar massage party
where your envy comes out.
When we exchange vows
I'll mean every word
wondering where
to send the Thank You Hallmark
since your RSVP
won't have a stamp either.
Stills sang of eagles and doves
the lusterless side of love
and until now seemed the sellout.
You say you've got
high expectations
for me
but I'm not sure
whom that means
well knowing whom it isn't.
"Repent
for the Kingdom of Heaven
is at hand."
at our nuptials
when I mentally confess
to responding
to your drunken masquerades
even though
you wouldn't
do the same for me
sober.
And then like wilted letters
foreign fibs go
to the scar massage party
where your envy comes out.
When we exchange vows
I'll mean every word
wondering where
to send the Thank You Hallmark
since your RSVP
won't have a stamp either.
Stills sang of eagles and doves
the lusterless side of love
and until now seemed the sellout.
You say you've got
high expectations
for me
but I'm not sure
whom that means
well knowing whom it isn't.
"Repent
for the Kingdom of Heaven
is at hand."
8.29.2012
A Proclivity for Arson and Making Fast Friends
Late
like a glove.
Humbled
like a leaf.
Sanctified
as pistachios.
Naked
with sore strangers.
A lie is a lie
no matter the size
of
Chantilly Lace
a pretty face
and other things
not worth repeating.
A billboard
en route to work
said "Blue suits you,"
but not as well
as a smile.
Say "Cheese."
like a glove.
Humbled
like a leaf.
Sanctified
as pistachios.
Naked
with sore strangers.
A lie is a lie
no matter the size
of
Chantilly Lace
a pretty face
and other things
not worth repeating.
A billboard
en route to work
said "Blue suits you,"
but not as well
as a smile.
Say "Cheese."
8.26.2012
But None of Them Feels Like Home
Speak not to me of addiction
or the taming of the shrew
romancing of a rock
or a swamp made in the sheets
with mascara on the pillows
and bricks in lieu of headboard
that never seem to stop them
from clawing at the wall.
I talk until I shouldn't
then drink until I can't.
What's a hardened criminal
but a man self-justified?
Face, without the body;
body, sans the soul;
spirited psychosis
runs through dainty veins.
This boor can work with none of these
sodomized aspirations
so sleeps instead with voodoo dolls
indulging in Palm Sunday.
Remember, kids
if nothing else
the lie within the rubber.
No Strings Attached--
there's no such thing
when speaking of a junkie.
or the taming of the shrew
romancing of a rock
or a swamp made in the sheets
with mascara on the pillows
and bricks in lieu of headboard
that never seem to stop them
from clawing at the wall.
I talk until I shouldn't
then drink until I can't.
What's a hardened criminal
but a man self-justified?
Face, without the body;
body, sans the soul;
spirited psychosis
runs through dainty veins.
This boor can work with none of these
sodomized aspirations
so sleeps instead with voodoo dolls
indulging in Palm Sunday.
Remember, kids
if nothing else
the lie within the rubber.
No Strings Attached--
there's no such thing
when speaking of a junkie.
8.22.2012
Torpedo On the Road
There are mornings
when I must remind myself
I am not Dimitri Karamazov.
Or Ivan. Or Alyosha. Or any of those
Brothers Dostoyevsky dreamed up.
Or am I?
It won't pay to correct them:
It's not a new me they're seeing--
it's the old one, with friends
and the same wanton desire
to decorate the mahogany
with crumpled dollar bills
and that impeccable timing
which tugs at ventricles
like when a nicotine fix
calls me to the sidewalk
right on cue to see my ex drive by
shaking her fists, regardless.
But now you know better
than to blame the cigarette
the clock, and most of all
the skirts:
It's you at the helm;
you and some greedy ghosts.
So what do we do?
We hang prints they gave us
many moons prior
to decipher what they saw
in a spark bound for gas.
We pitch perfect double-headers
and choke down rotten grapes
while recalling glory days
unscathed by sucking bottles
with flame arrestors on them.
Now a stiff wind makes our heart jump
and some nights
truth be told
the rest of us wants to follow.
What do you know of being unhinged?
Of having a compass that doesn't point north?
We didn't notice our shoes missing.
You didn't notice our wave.
"...As we forgive those who trespass against us."
when I must remind myself
I am not Dimitri Karamazov.
Or Ivan. Or Alyosha. Or any of those
Brothers Dostoyevsky dreamed up.
Or am I?
It won't pay to correct them:
It's not a new me they're seeing--
it's the old one, with friends
and the same wanton desire
to decorate the mahogany
with crumpled dollar bills
and that impeccable timing
which tugs at ventricles
like when a nicotine fix
calls me to the sidewalk
right on cue to see my ex drive by
shaking her fists, regardless.
But now you know better
than to blame the cigarette
the clock, and most of all
the skirts:
It's you at the helm;
you and some greedy ghosts.
So what do we do?
We hang prints they gave us
many moons prior
to decipher what they saw
in a spark bound for gas.
We pitch perfect double-headers
and choke down rotten grapes
while recalling glory days
unscathed by sucking bottles
with flame arrestors on them.
Now a stiff wind makes our heart jump
and some nights
truth be told
the rest of us wants to follow.
What do you know of being unhinged?
Of having a compass that doesn't point north?
We didn't notice our shoes missing.
You didn't notice our wave.
"...As we forgive those who trespass against us."
8.18.2012
On Earth As It Is In Heaven
Maybe it's the angle
of the setting August sun
or the hole in my shoe
that let loose the tonic
or the bummed cigarettes
that go one way
though more than likely
it had to do
with all the hands held
on the sidewalk down Main
and the sundresses begging
to find a floor soon.
Saint Peter and I
have one thing in common:
We're both sick of standing
outside Paradise.
of the setting August sun
or the hole in my shoe
that let loose the tonic
or the bummed cigarettes
that go one way
though more than likely
it had to do
with all the hands held
on the sidewalk down Main
and the sundresses begging
to find a floor soon.
Saint Peter and I
have one thing in common:
We're both sick of standing
outside Paradise.
The Strong, Silent Type
It wasn't on the battlefield that Napoleon lost his war. It was on the wretched roadway.
He decides to break form by not riding the right lane to pass the cars stacked up for the left hand turn when approaching the red light. It's Friday, the last commute of a long week, and some things must fall in naturally. A wait is not always the worst of things. Besides, he hasn't stopped to watch the heat lines radiate from the tops of sunbaked cars in some time; not quite smelling the roses, but akin. Even his right foot which is usually prepared to pivot from one pedal to the other in the blink of an eye is slow to respond during this savored rush hour ride. The gap between his truck and the bumper ahead of him opens up steadily without his boot leaving the brake. Hesitant leisure is taken advantage of yet again as a car rips into the newly formed space.
"Unbelievable," his passenger says along with some colorful expletives.
The statement rolls around in the driver's skull. Not really, he thinks to himself. His uncle used to tell him that the only stupid question is the one you don't ask, but there are some conversations not worth the breath spent; that is, until, the right nerve is pinched.
A prison warden's grin spreads in the rear-view mirror of the offending party, the one that says "You're mine, I've got the better of you." Nerve pinched. Mood altered. Tongue unleashed.
The driver tosses what's left of his butt after taking one more drag. It bounces within inches of his new intended target, a precursor of the barrage to come.
"But in this guy's case it's understandable," he says while exhaling the last of his menthol. "He's clearly over-compensating for something in his shorts with the jet black Mustang convertible. Middle-aged, bald spot, poor driving etiquette. Take a look at that yellow ID badge hanging from his mirror. He feels the need to advertise what his life's amounted to. I can read the word 'SUPERVISOR' from ten feet away."
The Mustang creeps ahead a few feet. Its driver must feel the sting.
"And get a load of that vanity plate," the sobering orator states with conviction as the newly revealed lower portion of the sports car incriminates ever onward. "The man has the audacity to proclaim himself the 'NIGHTOWL' as if his position in middle management wasn't enough of an ego boost. There he is, waiting for the sun to set so he can swoop in on God-knows-what. The man needs help."
It's clear the rant is over. His passenger turns his head forty-five degrees, almost afraid to lock eyes with his rudely awakened cohort, and comments. "You just summed up thirty years of therapy in thirty seconds. That guy's a prick."
"It wasn't rocket science. It takes one to know one. He's a cliche on wheels."
As the light turns green all three men are propelled forward into whatever awaits the rest of their weekends: questions from women that can't be easily answered, lingering headaches for various reasons, a few bottles in which to hide. Monday morning will prove that it still isn't over. The blue collar boogie passes the time, but he rightfully observes for a living.
He decides to break form by not riding the right lane to pass the cars stacked up for the left hand turn when approaching the red light. It's Friday, the last commute of a long week, and some things must fall in naturally. A wait is not always the worst of things. Besides, he hasn't stopped to watch the heat lines radiate from the tops of sunbaked cars in some time; not quite smelling the roses, but akin. Even his right foot which is usually prepared to pivot from one pedal to the other in the blink of an eye is slow to respond during this savored rush hour ride. The gap between his truck and the bumper ahead of him opens up steadily without his boot leaving the brake. Hesitant leisure is taken advantage of yet again as a car rips into the newly formed space.
"Unbelievable," his passenger says along with some colorful expletives.
The statement rolls around in the driver's skull. Not really, he thinks to himself. His uncle used to tell him that the only stupid question is the one you don't ask, but there are some conversations not worth the breath spent; that is, until, the right nerve is pinched.
A prison warden's grin spreads in the rear-view mirror of the offending party, the one that says "You're mine, I've got the better of you." Nerve pinched. Mood altered. Tongue unleashed.
The driver tosses what's left of his butt after taking one more drag. It bounces within inches of his new intended target, a precursor of the barrage to come.
"But in this guy's case it's understandable," he says while exhaling the last of his menthol. "He's clearly over-compensating for something in his shorts with the jet black Mustang convertible. Middle-aged, bald spot, poor driving etiquette. Take a look at that yellow ID badge hanging from his mirror. He feels the need to advertise what his life's amounted to. I can read the word 'SUPERVISOR' from ten feet away."
The Mustang creeps ahead a few feet. Its driver must feel the sting.
"And get a load of that vanity plate," the sobering orator states with conviction as the newly revealed lower portion of the sports car incriminates ever onward. "The man has the audacity to proclaim himself the 'NIGHTOWL' as if his position in middle management wasn't enough of an ego boost. There he is, waiting for the sun to set so he can swoop in on God-knows-what. The man needs help."
It's clear the rant is over. His passenger turns his head forty-five degrees, almost afraid to lock eyes with his rudely awakened cohort, and comments. "You just summed up thirty years of therapy in thirty seconds. That guy's a prick."
"It wasn't rocket science. It takes one to know one. He's a cliche on wheels."
As the light turns green all three men are propelled forward into whatever awaits the rest of their weekends: questions from women that can't be easily answered, lingering headaches for various reasons, a few bottles in which to hide. Monday morning will prove that it still isn't over. The blue collar boogie passes the time, but he rightfully observes for a living.
8.16.2012
Sentence
He
almost an "it"
stops in the middle
of the intersection
light as green as envious eyes
to pick up some trinket
left on the asphalt
but puts it down gently
after deeming it useless
then wanders on in our headlights
headphones loosely dangling from his ears
sweat pouring from the recesses in his temples
where the curly black hair retreated
like his loved ones
long ago
before the cheap cigarettes
like the one plastered
to the corner of his trembling mouth
became his only hope
and all I can think
as I step on the gas
and cut through the night
is
"That'll be me someday,"
if it isn't already.
almost an "it"
stops in the middle
of the intersection
light as green as envious eyes
to pick up some trinket
left on the asphalt
but puts it down gently
after deeming it useless
then wanders on in our headlights
headphones loosely dangling from his ears
sweat pouring from the recesses in his temples
where the curly black hair retreated
like his loved ones
long ago
before the cheap cigarettes
like the one plastered
to the corner of his trembling mouth
became his only hope
and all I can think
as I step on the gas
and cut through the night
is
"That'll be me someday,"
if it isn't already.
8.15.2012
Just Eat the Sausage, Don't Ask How It's Made
Who wouldn't sleep better
with a nine on their nightstand?
Who wouldn't get lost
with a cock for a compass?
Good from far, far from good
like a pack of candy cigarettes.
I'll give my judges
five sincere words:
Tempt not a desperate man.
All roads lead to roam
and the grimace of remembrance.
Mr. Hyde holds office hours
to ignore the undercurrent.
Cut loose the light infantry
move on to heavy hitters
when your tea comprised
of liquor and liquor
exudes alacrity.
The night started off
like a three-legged dog.
Hell hath no scorn
like a slam-pig's revenge.
Ulterior motives
exist in the lot.
I don't want to hear it.
We bleed just as often.
Have a nice trip.
See you next fall.
Backhanded compliments
send young men west.
Dear Saint Anthony
please come around.
Something's lost
that must be found.
with a nine on their nightstand?
Who wouldn't get lost
with a cock for a compass?
Good from far, far from good
like a pack of candy cigarettes.
I'll give my judges
five sincere words:
Tempt not a desperate man.
All roads lead to roam
and the grimace of remembrance.
Mr. Hyde holds office hours
to ignore the undercurrent.
Cut loose the light infantry
move on to heavy hitters
when your tea comprised
of liquor and liquor
exudes alacrity.
The night started off
like a three-legged dog.
Hell hath no scorn
like a slam-pig's revenge.
Ulterior motives
exist in the lot.
I don't want to hear it.
We bleed just as often.
Have a nice trip.
See you next fall.
Backhanded compliments
send young men west.
Dear Saint Anthony
please come around.
Something's lost
that must be found.
8.12.2012
The Wet Look
A boatload of Merchant Marines
returned with the tide late this morning.
Parents and lovers lined up for miles
with "Welcome Home" signs and broad sun umbrellas.
Cadets in crisp white descended the ramp
to greet sweaty loved ones they'd missed for six months.
My bird's eye view from the third storey stairwell
keyed in on a chiseled young man on his knee
with a black velvet box and a beauty before him.
My heart stopped to witness a moment unstolen.
Her wavy green sun dress met curled auburn hair
at a set of tanned shoulders of which he had dreamed
while floating abroad, embarking on life
which'd be dedicated to captains and seas.
Her hand touched her lips as he whispered the words
that only the worthy ever should hear.
The drone of the crowd and the tools on the job
drowned out the exchange of vows I hold dear.
A small hopeful corner inside of my chest
lunged to the edge to yell at her, "Yes!"
but I didn't have to succumb to that act.
The telltale embrace told me she'd agreed.
Victories happen on every square inch
of sidewalk and sod if you know how to look.
I felt my mouth widen, vicariously happy
though I'm sure that my eyes
matched the hue of her dress.
His sister came running, rounded the corner
and screamed when she saw the ring on her finger.
His mother strolled over to welcome a daughter
and sighed with relief while the boat emptied out.
There were nods of heads.
There were pairs of wet eyes.
Oh God, there were wet eyes all over the scene.
My partner approached with a hammer in hand.
It wasn't my turn.
I sank back to work.
returned with the tide late this morning.
Parents and lovers lined up for miles
with "Welcome Home" signs and broad sun umbrellas.
Cadets in crisp white descended the ramp
to greet sweaty loved ones they'd missed for six months.
My bird's eye view from the third storey stairwell
keyed in on a chiseled young man on his knee
with a black velvet box and a beauty before him.
My heart stopped to witness a moment unstolen.
Her wavy green sun dress met curled auburn hair
at a set of tanned shoulders of which he had dreamed
while floating abroad, embarking on life
which'd be dedicated to captains and seas.
Her hand touched her lips as he whispered the words
that only the worthy ever should hear.
The drone of the crowd and the tools on the job
drowned out the exchange of vows I hold dear.
A small hopeful corner inside of my chest
lunged to the edge to yell at her, "Yes!"
but I didn't have to succumb to that act.
The telltale embrace told me she'd agreed.
Victories happen on every square inch
of sidewalk and sod if you know how to look.
I felt my mouth widen, vicariously happy
though I'm sure that my eyes
matched the hue of her dress.
His sister came running, rounded the corner
and screamed when she saw the ring on her finger.
His mother strolled over to welcome a daughter
and sighed with relief while the boat emptied out.
There were nods of heads.
There were pairs of wet eyes.
Oh God, there were wet eyes all over the scene.
My partner approached with a hammer in hand.
It wasn't my turn.
I sank back to work.
7.30.2012
Protege, Years Later
He lifts his cocktail
to his lips
with both hands
like an old vagabond
sipping free Catholic soup
knows to roll his eyes
when I try to get away
with verbal murder
and when he's gone
I find my toilet seat up
like clockwork
since we've seen all sides
yet still we strive
to keep alive
like flies stuck in a shithouse
not so much complaining.
All the worst heroes die
due to voids
dealt in cards.
The worthiest
suck down shards
of cork in wine
without so much
as an eyebrow.
I'm lucky to have
such a place to hang my hats.
to his lips
with both hands
like an old vagabond
sipping free Catholic soup
knows to roll his eyes
when I try to get away
with verbal murder
and when he's gone
I find my toilet seat up
like clockwork
since we've seen all sides
yet still we strive
to keep alive
like flies stuck in a shithouse
not so much complaining.
All the worst heroes die
due to voids
dealt in cards.
The worthiest
suck down shards
of cork in wine
without so much
as an eyebrow.
I'm lucky to have
such a place to hang my hats.
7.29.2012
Rhythm Method Semaphore
While you battened down the hatches
you lost your cloak and dagger.
Half your acts are Hell-sending.
You bed down with cadavers.
Burn out the clutch.
Stay off the sauce.
Pump and sweat
to your heart's content
but
Machiavelli and his Prince
were wrong on ends and means.
They only whip a horse that pulls.
Dont be gun-shy wearing war paint.
And there, seething in the myst
is the earned truism
that the sun doesn't only
set in the west.
It sets on you and me.
you lost your cloak and dagger.
Half your acts are Hell-sending.
You bed down with cadavers.
Burn out the clutch.
Stay off the sauce.
Pump and sweat
to your heart's content
but
Machiavelli and his Prince
were wrong on ends and means.
They only whip a horse that pulls.
Dont be gun-shy wearing war paint.
And there, seething in the myst
is the earned truism
that the sun doesn't only
set in the west.
It sets on you and me.
7.13.2012
Snippet from a Stumble
His work boot's
steel toe
catches a high-lipped
sidewalk seam.
Part of it's the ache of Friday
when he shat blood for the shop all week;
the vodka's guilty, too
but at least he tipped her well;
and more than either
aforementioned reason
it's ignorance on the block
again:
"They love one another
and
he completes her,"
a wispy blonde
whose circulatory system
shows through the skin
not covered by her
earth-toned summer dress
explains from her nose
in a British tourist's accent
that easily whites knuckles
of any blue-blooded Joe.
She and her companion
also of the fairer sex
stride by a blind cartographer
taking with them what's been promised
by a fairytale that started
down between some woman's legs.
Trying not to burst out laughing
like a maniac on Main
he decides to ask
a looker out
as soon as he finds home.
If one squints hard enough
they almost all look sane.
He never met a horse
that he could bet on
but he finished every race.
steel toe
catches a high-lipped
sidewalk seam.
Part of it's the ache of Friday
when he shat blood for the shop all week;
the vodka's guilty, too
but at least he tipped her well;
and more than either
aforementioned reason
it's ignorance on the block
again:
"They love one another
and
he completes her,"
a wispy blonde
whose circulatory system
shows through the skin
not covered by her
earth-toned summer dress
explains from her nose
in a British tourist's accent
that easily whites knuckles
of any blue-blooded Joe.
She and her companion
also of the fairer sex
stride by a blind cartographer
taking with them what's been promised
by a fairytale that started
down between some woman's legs.
Trying not to burst out laughing
like a maniac on Main
he decides to ask
a looker out
as soon as he finds home.
If one squints hard enough
they almost all look sane.
He never met a horse
that he could bet on
but he finished every race.
7.04.2012
He Floats Through the Air With the Greatest of Ease
An intruder was the last thing I expected to see when I arrived home last night. Most times I have to plead with potential company, rambling of the alcohol and offering consolation prizes. Fortunately I was sober since none of my real friends are single and the thick summer love hanging like dark velvet had claimed victory over revelry again. I noticed as soon as I tossed my keys onto the table. Someone had infiltrated the dragon's lair in the hopes that he was fresh out of fire. Little did they know he could barely push steam, even when paid to do it.
"Don't shoot!" came an earnestly terrified voice from the darkest corner of my bedroom. He must've seen the gun cabinet and figured I was packing. I wouldn't have thought to draw anyway. They say it comes down to training and muscle memory, but there are stronger clumps of flesh than what's in my trigger finger. I decided to defuse things the best way I knew how.
"I was going to ask the same of you, but I guess you didn't find anything useful."
There's silence for a moment while my unexpected guest considers. Then he throws a curve ball. The lamp on my nightstand's flicked on, revealing the image of a desperate young man in a tight black T-shirt and skinny jeans screaming for release. He looks vaguely familiar, but most criminals do. His features fade to statistical data composed by female historians. Something strikes me from the blur. Strung around the portions of his arms composed of bi- and triceps are tattoos in bold, dark colors. He can't be more than twenty. He can't be dangerous. Yet.
I step into my quarters and offer him a seat on the bed. He denies the invitation without making eye contact. Those big, brown globes could suck the soul from a virgin, but perhaps he's met his match. He knows the risk that a true gaze takes. Windows, the ignorant call them; "projectors" is more accurate. One can tell too much by what the eyeballs offer; more, most times, than what their reluctant owners choose to confess.
"Can I make you a drink?" I ask in an amiable tone. It seems a pointless gesture. This kid's got bigger issues than punishing his liver. Still, the willing host in me feels an obligation.
"Anything but Jack Daniel's," he mutters, a reminiscent smirk pasted to the lower half of his face. He looks like the cat who got away with raiding the cage, though this time he's been caught. A faint odor of industrial-grade cleaning solution used to disinfect the hallways of a state-funded college dormitory permeates my nostrils at the end of his request.
I comply and pour up two Bacardis. The ice cracks audibly due to the temperature difference. "My grandfather's favorite," he says after a swig. Another strange coincidence. They tend to come in threes.
Not willing to be unsettled on my own ball field, I down the tumbler and retort with a declarative. "Listen, kid, you seem pretty swell, but you can't go busting into people's apartments. How'd you get in, anyway? Was it the fire escape? I have those alarms on the windows, I'm surprised nobody in the building..."
But I'm cut off by a nod he makes in the direction of my spare room; the one where books and other dead men rest. An eerie myst rolls from under the whitewashed door. As much as I don't want to admit it I'm well aware of the scenario, the score, the truth being stranger than fiction, and this wayward man-child being no stranger. It all adds up to one of two things: I've finally lost my mind completely, or Einstein was right about more than what he's credited for by the reasonable world.
"I'm not here to harm you, though I'm not sure you'll exist if what I'm trying to accomplish comes to be," this suddenly assertive doppelganger states. "There's something I need to do back home, but that lousy warehouse job you've blocked from your memory ain't going to fund it anytime soon."
What's left of the ice cubes melts in our glasses. Whoever said honesty can only be a virtue clearly hasn't meddled with Time. My jaw relocates itself high enough to speak again. The words that come out are impromptu and instinctive at the same time. Part of me has always wished this could happen, even if the repercussions are drastic.
"I don't keep any money here. My card won't do much good, either. The rent was due this week."
I watch his fists tighten and hear his knuckles crack like those ice cubes. Escalation may occur after all. Everyone has his breaking point. Disappointment is a natural culprit. If junior's going to make it as far as I have he better get used to that old dog. He paces around my bedroom looking for something of value, but we're both aware it'll be to no avail. No one can lie to you quite like yourself. A twinge of pity rises up to my Adam's apple. It doesn't take any Oscar-worthy performance to act upon it. Compassion's in our blood.
"I may be able to help you. Here. Give her this," I command him, transferring my father's ring from my favorite bookshelf to his hand. "If she's worth her weight in salt she'll get it. You haven't received it from the old man yet, and who knows if you will now at all? I'm not so familiar with this type of physics."
He examines the circle of gold in his palm, doesn't ask what the inscription means. When there are less pressing issues at stake his inquisitive nature will lead him to the answer: our name in a language we can't read or speak; typical of our father, of course. Like one of the loose marbles inside my skull he rolls it around in his hand, sees it's flat on one side, feels responsible. "Thrown against a wall?" he asks, knowing how his temper can get. Half of my mouth curls heavenward. "It must've been a bad one," he whispers apologetically.
"They were varying shades of awful in her wake," I assure him, taking the liberty of altering the context of his remark. "Don't blow it. She's the One. Now get out of here before I feel less gracious."
Without a wasted second he heads for the door where his portal awaits. The fog begins receding as soon as he passes out of sight. It takes a mustered strength to refrain from running into it behind him. Those old sci-fi movies suggest it'd cause a fatal collision anyway. My feet stand firm to the crooked hardwood floor of my suddenly surreal bedroom. I reach for the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, light up inside my place for the first time, and wait to see if I suddenly cease to be. Part of me hopes he succeeds.
What makes a good winner is knowing when you've lost.
What makes good fiction is the truth.
I'm waiting.
"Don't shoot!" came an earnestly terrified voice from the darkest corner of my bedroom. He must've seen the gun cabinet and figured I was packing. I wouldn't have thought to draw anyway. They say it comes down to training and muscle memory, but there are stronger clumps of flesh than what's in my trigger finger. I decided to defuse things the best way I knew how.
"I was going to ask the same of you, but I guess you didn't find anything useful."
There's silence for a moment while my unexpected guest considers. Then he throws a curve ball. The lamp on my nightstand's flicked on, revealing the image of a desperate young man in a tight black T-shirt and skinny jeans screaming for release. He looks vaguely familiar, but most criminals do. His features fade to statistical data composed by female historians. Something strikes me from the blur. Strung around the portions of his arms composed of bi- and triceps are tattoos in bold, dark colors. He can't be more than twenty. He can't be dangerous. Yet.
I step into my quarters and offer him a seat on the bed. He denies the invitation without making eye contact. Those big, brown globes could suck the soul from a virgin, but perhaps he's met his match. He knows the risk that a true gaze takes. Windows, the ignorant call them; "projectors" is more accurate. One can tell too much by what the eyeballs offer; more, most times, than what their reluctant owners choose to confess.
"Can I make you a drink?" I ask in an amiable tone. It seems a pointless gesture. This kid's got bigger issues than punishing his liver. Still, the willing host in me feels an obligation.
"Anything but Jack Daniel's," he mutters, a reminiscent smirk pasted to the lower half of his face. He looks like the cat who got away with raiding the cage, though this time he's been caught. A faint odor of industrial-grade cleaning solution used to disinfect the hallways of a state-funded college dormitory permeates my nostrils at the end of his request.
I comply and pour up two Bacardis. The ice cracks audibly due to the temperature difference. "My grandfather's favorite," he says after a swig. Another strange coincidence. They tend to come in threes.
Not willing to be unsettled on my own ball field, I down the tumbler and retort with a declarative. "Listen, kid, you seem pretty swell, but you can't go busting into people's apartments. How'd you get in, anyway? Was it the fire escape? I have those alarms on the windows, I'm surprised nobody in the building..."
But I'm cut off by a nod he makes in the direction of my spare room; the one where books and other dead men rest. An eerie myst rolls from under the whitewashed door. As much as I don't want to admit it I'm well aware of the scenario, the score, the truth being stranger than fiction, and this wayward man-child being no stranger. It all adds up to one of two things: I've finally lost my mind completely, or Einstein was right about more than what he's credited for by the reasonable world.
"I'm not here to harm you, though I'm not sure you'll exist if what I'm trying to accomplish comes to be," this suddenly assertive doppelganger states. "There's something I need to do back home, but that lousy warehouse job you've blocked from your memory ain't going to fund it anytime soon."
What's left of the ice cubes melts in our glasses. Whoever said honesty can only be a virtue clearly hasn't meddled with Time. My jaw relocates itself high enough to speak again. The words that come out are impromptu and instinctive at the same time. Part of me has always wished this could happen, even if the repercussions are drastic.
"I don't keep any money here. My card won't do much good, either. The rent was due this week."
I watch his fists tighten and hear his knuckles crack like those ice cubes. Escalation may occur after all. Everyone has his breaking point. Disappointment is a natural culprit. If junior's going to make it as far as I have he better get used to that old dog. He paces around my bedroom looking for something of value, but we're both aware it'll be to no avail. No one can lie to you quite like yourself. A twinge of pity rises up to my Adam's apple. It doesn't take any Oscar-worthy performance to act upon it. Compassion's in our blood.
"I may be able to help you. Here. Give her this," I command him, transferring my father's ring from my favorite bookshelf to his hand. "If she's worth her weight in salt she'll get it. You haven't received it from the old man yet, and who knows if you will now at all? I'm not so familiar with this type of physics."
He examines the circle of gold in his palm, doesn't ask what the inscription means. When there are less pressing issues at stake his inquisitive nature will lead him to the answer: our name in a language we can't read or speak; typical of our father, of course. Like one of the loose marbles inside my skull he rolls it around in his hand, sees it's flat on one side, feels responsible. "Thrown against a wall?" he asks, knowing how his temper can get. Half of my mouth curls heavenward. "It must've been a bad one," he whispers apologetically.
"They were varying shades of awful in her wake," I assure him, taking the liberty of altering the context of his remark. "Don't blow it. She's the One. Now get out of here before I feel less gracious."
Without a wasted second he heads for the door where his portal awaits. The fog begins receding as soon as he passes out of sight. It takes a mustered strength to refrain from running into it behind him. Those old sci-fi movies suggest it'd cause a fatal collision anyway. My feet stand firm to the crooked hardwood floor of my suddenly surreal bedroom. I reach for the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, light up inside my place for the first time, and wait to see if I suddenly cease to be. Part of me hopes he succeeds.
What makes a good winner is knowing when you've lost.
What makes good fiction is the truth.
I'm waiting.
7.01.2012
A Blurb In the Obituaries, a Tab That He Can't Pay
It was middle-aged catharsis night
next door on my oak altar.
Arms like swinging hams
chased my cocktail up the straw.
I fled to my apartment
for an old and botched routine:
a few more gin and tonics
for what could've, should've been.
Left like toxic garnish
from three time zones away
was a message the next morning
that would break the donkey's back.
It was deleted from a distance.
It's a song that doesn't change.
Whoever lands in those hands
should increase their life insurance.
Tonight on my stroll home
from a married inspiration
with three beers swimming inside me
and alarm clocks on my mind
I saw something that stirred me
from my fear of spraying skunks.
The phone lines were intact
though the dent was undeniable.
I wondered if it was the pole
that made the barfly cry
when after shots of Irish whiskey
he told me of his wife
who had wrapped her car around it
twenty years ago at least.
I walked him home that night
since he spoke of sad solutions.
When I see him now I wonder
if he fears I'll pull the favor
but he doesn't know I've gained my share
in knowledge from his plight.
Some folks have worse reminders
than a voicemail in the morning.
(I swore I saw some hatchet marks
below the impact splinters.)
The Romans paid poor Judas
thirty pieces of pure silver
for his infamous betrayal
that wrapped around his neck.
My last kiss was different
as was the gift they gave me
though the curse of observation
keeps the pensive wide awake.
It's time to ride the calm
and forget there was a storm.
next door on my oak altar.
Arms like swinging hams
chased my cocktail up the straw.
I fled to my apartment
for an old and botched routine:
a few more gin and tonics
for what could've, should've been.
Left like toxic garnish
from three time zones away
was a message the next morning
that would break the donkey's back.
It was deleted from a distance.
It's a song that doesn't change.
Whoever lands in those hands
should increase their life insurance.
Tonight on my stroll home
from a married inspiration
with three beers swimming inside me
and alarm clocks on my mind
I saw something that stirred me
from my fear of spraying skunks.
The phone lines were intact
though the dent was undeniable.
I wondered if it was the pole
that made the barfly cry
when after shots of Irish whiskey
he told me of his wife
who had wrapped her car around it
twenty years ago at least.
I walked him home that night
since he spoke of sad solutions.
When I see him now I wonder
if he fears I'll pull the favor
but he doesn't know I've gained my share
in knowledge from his plight.
Some folks have worse reminders
than a voicemail in the morning.
(I swore I saw some hatchet marks
below the impact splinters.)
The Romans paid poor Judas
thirty pieces of pure silver
for his infamous betrayal
that wrapped around his neck.
My last kiss was different
as was the gift they gave me
though the curse of observation
keeps the pensive wide awake.
It's time to ride the calm
and forget there was a storm.
6.29.2012
Rachel McAdams and Other Regrets
It sits on the dresser
that could legally vote
pissing away its ticks
in the wind.
There's a reluctance
to cast it out
from this den
where the unmade bed
and amends crave the same.
Its spot on my wrist
was replaced by a clone
when the band snapped
one morning at work
with a buzz.
The previous night
a fight down the street
raised my blood
raised the hair on my neck
like a dog.
It didn't take long
to flick my fresh smoke
making the hottest
march late in May.
There, never learning
with justice a farce
intervening like someone
with reason to care
we tossed them aside
like rag dolls in Kansas.
It was over before it began
like the best.
Later that week
the word on the street
was that one kid
attacked his friend
over shoes.
It left a poor taste
like the time decades back
when Dylan let friends down
by going electric.
I was forced to retire
a watch that worked fine
over something so null
as the tale tends to go.
She always cared more
that her thighs didn't touch.
I wouldn't have noticed.
Her ring size remained.
(The secret to reaching
the reader is simple:
Make them all think
your words are for them
when truly yourself
makes the pour worth the paper.)
that could legally vote
pissing away its ticks
in the wind.
There's a reluctance
to cast it out
from this den
where the unmade bed
and amends crave the same.
Its spot on my wrist
was replaced by a clone
when the band snapped
one morning at work
with a buzz.
The previous night
a fight down the street
raised my blood
raised the hair on my neck
like a dog.
It didn't take long
to flick my fresh smoke
making the hottest
march late in May.
There, never learning
with justice a farce
intervening like someone
with reason to care
we tossed them aside
like rag dolls in Kansas.
It was over before it began
like the best.
Later that week
the word on the street
was that one kid
attacked his friend
over shoes.
It left a poor taste
like the time decades back
when Dylan let friends down
by going electric.
I was forced to retire
a watch that worked fine
over something so null
as the tale tends to go.
She always cared more
that her thighs didn't touch.
I wouldn't have noticed.
Her ring size remained.
(The secret to reaching
the reader is simple:
Make them all think
your words are for them
when truly yourself
makes the pour worth the paper.)
6.25.2012
We're Not Mere Sloppy Seconds
What I witnessed in the moonlight
that squeezed between my blinds
were your teeth clenched at the ceiling
that I couldn't call a smile.
The razor's touch had not been felt
for days, but I prefer that
since it proves it unexpected
as life's best blessings are.
This isn't a trick question
but there's part of me that
wonders: Who was it you saw
with your eyes closed
underneath me?
There's nothing wrong
with healthy doses
of unhinged pretending.
Funny, I'm the opposite.
It's missionary finish.
But it's myself I don't see
when I miss and catch the mirror
after washing off the handshake
that old friends aren't scared to make.
That's why I douse myself
with the same cologne I've worn
since a junior high school virgin
(back before the break)--
The scent of known components
in a system bent for lead
helps remind a drunk spelunker
that there's shimmer in the wake.
It's not dehumanizing.
We're not mere sloppy seconds.
There will be maps drawn on deathbeds
for the half they'll never puncture.
that squeezed between my blinds
were your teeth clenched at the ceiling
that I couldn't call a smile.
The razor's touch had not been felt
for days, but I prefer that
since it proves it unexpected
as life's best blessings are.
This isn't a trick question
but there's part of me that
wonders: Who was it you saw
with your eyes closed
underneath me?
There's nothing wrong
with healthy doses
of unhinged pretending.
Funny, I'm the opposite.
It's missionary finish.
But it's myself I don't see
when I miss and catch the mirror
after washing off the handshake
that old friends aren't scared to make.
That's why I douse myself
with the same cologne I've worn
since a junior high school virgin
(back before the break)--
The scent of known components
in a system bent for lead
helps remind a drunk spelunker
that there's shimmer in the wake.
It's not dehumanizing.
We're not mere sloppy seconds.
There will be maps drawn on deathbeds
for the half they'll never puncture.
6.24.2012
Jader
This time last week
there was breakfast to make.
Those dishes are still
in my sink.
A holy hangover
Sunday's true best
numbs my legs
as I've craved since
Long Island.
Today's not so
social, the pack has
been thinned.
The record is spinning.
The worn needle skips.
It's all been right there
in black and in blue.
You're right:
You're a fool for not knowing.
These frail little systems
which clutter our lives
crumble
as only they can.
A sage stuttered something
on feeding two wolves
but the hungry one
just gnawed my leg off.
The circling starts
when there's blood
in the water.
The Pinball Wizard strikes deadly.
Someone declared
Every Man for Himself
and we've all paid the price
ever since.
Head versus heart
versus dreadful appendage--
a battle that's raged
since the caveman.
My first-grade teacher
gave me a wink
that said
"Son, quit while you're ahead."
It's hard to be wrong
at five in the morning
but I'm not afraid of a challenge.
There are three things loathed more
than hot Monday mornings:
being born, being buried
and being alone.
there was breakfast to make.
Those dishes are still
in my sink.
A holy hangover
Sunday's true best
numbs my legs
as I've craved since
Long Island.
Today's not so
social, the pack has
been thinned.
The record is spinning.
The worn needle skips.
It's all been right there
in black and in blue.
You're right:
You're a fool for not knowing.
These frail little systems
which clutter our lives
crumble
as only they can.
A sage stuttered something
on feeding two wolves
but the hungry one
just gnawed my leg off.
The circling starts
when there's blood
in the water.
The Pinball Wizard strikes deadly.
Someone declared
Every Man for Himself
and we've all paid the price
ever since.
Head versus heart
versus dreadful appendage--
a battle that's raged
since the caveman.
My first-grade teacher
gave me a wink
that said
"Son, quit while you're ahead."
It's hard to be wrong
at five in the morning
but I'm not afraid of a challenge.
There are three things loathed more
than hot Monday mornings:
being born, being buried
and being alone.
6.20.2012
The Time Traveler's Widow
Her train ran late
but better than never.
The hug was expected.
The kiss threw me off.
Somewhere in limbo
wherever that is
a roomful of naysayers*
craned their stiff necks.
(*our friends whom we'd slept with
without covering tracks)
No elephant lurked
in the room where we laid.
There wasn't a better
excuse to call in.
Well behaved hands
with saintly restraint
gripped certain curves
they'd almost forgotten
like a buoy in current
like a place to raise kids.
(If only more of this recital were true.)
The morning was long.
We dove under covers.
She was hungover, I was
in bliss.
There wasn't a smear
of mascara to speak of.
There wasn't a tear
I'd ever admit.
But you can't hang on
to what isn't yours
so I traded kids' waffles
for a beverage we'd like:
complex Bloody Marys
at a spot where I'd had
much like years back
the best of my life.
Let it serve as a testament
to the art of forgiveness--
there in the daylight
she smiled in earnest.
It's got nothing to do
with what I deserve.
Fate works in circles.
Nothing seems strange.
but better than never.
The hug was expected.
The kiss threw me off.
Somewhere in limbo
wherever that is
a roomful of naysayers*
craned their stiff necks.
(*our friends whom we'd slept with
without covering tracks)
No elephant lurked
in the room where we laid.
There wasn't a better
excuse to call in.
Well behaved hands
with saintly restraint
gripped certain curves
they'd almost forgotten
like a buoy in current
like a place to raise kids.
(If only more of this recital were true.)
The morning was long.
We dove under covers.
She was hungover, I was
in bliss.
There wasn't a smear
of mascara to speak of.
There wasn't a tear
I'd ever admit.
But you can't hang on
to what isn't yours
so I traded kids' waffles
for a beverage we'd like:
complex Bloody Marys
at a spot where I'd had
much like years back
the best of my life.
Let it serve as a testament
to the art of forgiveness--
there in the daylight
she smiled in earnest.
It's got nothing to do
with what I deserve.
Fate works in circles.
Nothing seems strange.
6.19.2012
No One Looks Good Within Six Inches
The truth is that
as much as I tried my hand
and others'
I never became a fisherman
but stubbornly I went
launching lures into the lake
quietly content
with the water's still reflection
of burning trees, a crashing sun
and a man who knew himself
well enough
to know the score.
All the King's horses
down in the algae
confirm prophesies from
before eggs climbed walls:
The cat was not the only thing
curiosity has killed.
as much as I tried my hand
and others'
I never became a fisherman
but stubbornly I went
launching lures into the lake
quietly content
with the water's still reflection
of burning trees, a crashing sun
and a man who knew himself
well enough
to know the score.
All the King's horses
down in the algae
confirm prophesies from
before eggs climbed walls:
The cat was not the only thing
curiosity has killed.
6.17.2012
Name, Rank, Serial Number
How does one deal
with a day that's appeared
after five cheapened years
of hell in a frame?
Two wanderers cut
from the same cloth repent
both hoping to save
what's left of their name.
Burn turns to scrape
turns to scab
turns to scar.
A new understanding
of why men collide
comes forth with the truth
that the fine art of fucking
is nothing and nothing
like riding a bike.
Know what to savor
and know what to swallow:
a sour good night, a drag to the floor.
The whore strolls down Main Street
while nexts-in-line follow
to donate an organ
still hoping for more.
With ears under water
and silverless clouds
the home team
remembers to thank all its fans.
Character's built
behind bolted doors
when a boy takes no credit
for making a man.
with a day that's appeared
after five cheapened years
of hell in a frame?
Two wanderers cut
from the same cloth repent
both hoping to save
what's left of their name.
Burn turns to scrape
turns to scab
turns to scar.
A new understanding
of why men collide
comes forth with the truth
that the fine art of fucking
is nothing and nothing
like riding a bike.
Know what to savor
and know what to swallow:
a sour good night, a drag to the floor.
The whore strolls down Main Street
while nexts-in-line follow
to donate an organ
still hoping for more.
With ears under water
and silverless clouds
the home team
remembers to thank all its fans.
Character's built
behind bolted doors
when a boy takes no credit
for making a man.
6.10.2012
Apples and Days and Doctors and Ways
Teach the boy
of carpentry
and firearms
and hangovers.
Remove the straggling
bobby pins
that only you
don't notice.
Hang your missing switchblade
which you swore
a friend had stolen
but was only hidden so well
that its wielder was deceived.
That sinking feeling in your gut
defined as disappointment
should be embraced
as evidence:
at worst you're still alive.
Collect front teeth of players
who left far too much unwagered
and excuse the doubting Thomas
who would kill to have your eyes.
Something rots in Denmark
and you smell it over oceans
or maybe that's the gas pains
of a fresh relationship.
You knock down walls when sober
like your father never taught you
but have to get your shine box
when the bottle frees your id.
Allow a man who's long been dead
his shotgun in his hands
to remind you of a cosmic fact:
The sun, it also rises.
Sleep until you can't sleep
and your back hurts
and you're tired.
Mayhaps there was a mix-up.
This was not to be your life.
of carpentry
and firearms
and hangovers.
Remove the straggling
bobby pins
that only you
don't notice.
Hang your missing switchblade
which you swore
a friend had stolen
but was only hidden so well
that its wielder was deceived.
That sinking feeling in your gut
defined as disappointment
should be embraced
as evidence:
at worst you're still alive.
Collect front teeth of players
who left far too much unwagered
and excuse the doubting Thomas
who would kill to have your eyes.
Something rots in Denmark
and you smell it over oceans
or maybe that's the gas pains
of a fresh relationship.
You knock down walls when sober
like your father never taught you
but have to get your shine box
when the bottle frees your id.
Allow a man who's long been dead
his shotgun in his hands
to remind you of a cosmic fact:
The sun, it also rises.
Sleep until you can't sleep
and your back hurts
and you're tired.
Mayhaps there was a mix-up.
This was not to be your life.
6.04.2012
Itchy Scabs Eclipsed
You didn't shoot the moon
but then again
you didn't have to--
It was claimed in the name
of your family's tradition.
What a brilliant way
to stay in ones thoughts
for years after blood's
come out from the sheets.
As I pull down Main
and aim for the spot
in front of my stoop
with a door you can't breach
that smirking Old Man
sinks down out of sight
below the named mountain
overlooking these bricks
and I whisper to him, now
merely a rock
"Serendipity, Babe,"
before gripping the key
in the darkness created
by calling it quits
and starting anew
where I should've been.
but then again
you didn't have to--
It was claimed in the name
of your family's tradition.
What a brilliant way
to stay in ones thoughts
for years after blood's
come out from the sheets.
As I pull down Main
and aim for the spot
in front of my stoop
with a door you can't breach
that smirking Old Man
sinks down out of sight
below the named mountain
overlooking these bricks
and I whisper to him, now
merely a rock
"Serendipity, Babe,"
before gripping the key
in the darkness created
by calling it quits
and starting anew
where I should've been.
6.02.2012
Clutch for the Afterglow and Jettison the Rest
It was the first drag taken on my stoop for two months; unaccompanied, pensive, bittersweetly victorious. A young family of three approached on the sidewalk. They must've been going to dinner. Food and sad art pull the purse strings in this town. Kids have no say in what they suck on these days. There would be plenty of time for peer pressure, coffee breaks sans caffeine, and denied addiction. A look of distaste from a parent not ten years older than me tarnished my attempt at rare fairness. I kept the smoke in my lungs until they passed by my calloused knees. It was hard not to choke, but I held back the threat. The blue plume dissipated into the lights under the awning overhead. I flicked my butt at a storm drain along the curb, but missed. That's life for you-- no good deed goes unpunished.
A package on my doormat sent the same message. The return address was transcontinental, though still far too close. I wondered how long it sat there and why no honorable thief did me justice. Its contents were as baffling as the strange codes and places printed on the label: some candy for Easter, secondhand T-shirts, and a small stuffed rabbit that sought to draw blood. I tossed the shirts into the closet for later transportation to my mother's. She could use them as rags, she's big on recycling. The chocolate melted in my mouth as opposed to my hand as advertised. I popped a few more morsels down the hatch than I probably should have as the rabbit stared blankly into space. The candy shells crunched, filling gaps between teeth, and I turned the toy's head to the side out of guilt. A chew toy for the neighbors' dogs? Not even a chance of that lucky fate. Two fools built a home without knowing how, one hermit's torn it down for three seasons hence, an inanimate object sums up the wreckage. God, love is simple sometimes.
It takes eight trips to get my condensed life back into my apartment. The two flights of stairs make their play to wear me out, and win. How any of the boxes, bags, and suitcases sum me up is beyond me. How can twenty-eight years of trial and error in the name of discovery be contained within the confines of any combination of parcels? It makes the nomads of Asia Minor seem right; travel light, move like fluid. Someone in what's left of the world must have it nailed. Chances are it's not on this side of the prime meridian. I moved across the Hudson for a better shot at the search. It should've been farther if to be successful, but the coward in me cowered again. The notion of not having the support network that its constituents insist exists kept me local; us, I should say. It's not a pronoun that leaves my lips often and therefore should be celebrated. An only child flips out his phone and dials his impatient mother.
"I'm home and overwhelmed."
"Same here. No welcoming committee?"
"They're on strike. Do you want to come over and help me unpack?"
"At eleven at night?"
"I was kidding."
"No you weren't. You don't sound good."
"What does good sound like?"
"You'll find out one of these days."
"I'm more likely to be killed by a champagne cork, but thanks."
We go back and forth a bit more, then make tentative plans for a homecooked meal. I pry myself from the conversation through the use of a bathroom excuse. She's a good woman deep down-- strong and stubborn as seasoned livestock. But, like in some lessons I've learned on the pavement, we're too similar to ever be close. Two grays don't make a white. It turns out some traits are genetic. I cringe at the possibility of others surfacing as time goes on, visions of my father's fumbling at the forefront. The horror inspires a smoke break like I'm still on a union job.
The Italian joint owned by Albanians is closing as I light up my menthol. My landlord locks the front door of the restaurant, notices me and makes a face implying that he should. In his soupy, struggling accent he asks where I've been for the last two months and what exactly it is that I do. I answer as best I can, but in reality it's an educated guess. The content of my replies sounds convincing. It's the tone that gives it away. My words come out like scrambled eggs. At least I don't give the typical Beacon townie response by blaming it on some failed passion. There's a time and a place for pity. Death row is one of them. Main Street is not. I lead him on by asking if we can pay multiple months' rent to stay ahead just to watch his face light up like a menorah. Sometimes I do that. Some people deserve to be stroked to a lather. I finish my game and bid farewell to the man with the unlevel building.
A family of raccoons scurries down the abandoned sidewalk like refugees from the apocalypse. The mother leads her three cubs down the storm drain in the curb at the corner and I swear I've seen enough. Without hesitation I head back upstairs for the last time that night to mix up some poison and tumble it down since it already feels like I have been.
A package on my doormat sent the same message. The return address was transcontinental, though still far too close. I wondered how long it sat there and why no honorable thief did me justice. Its contents were as baffling as the strange codes and places printed on the label: some candy for Easter, secondhand T-shirts, and a small stuffed rabbit that sought to draw blood. I tossed the shirts into the closet for later transportation to my mother's. She could use them as rags, she's big on recycling. The chocolate melted in my mouth as opposed to my hand as advertised. I popped a few more morsels down the hatch than I probably should have as the rabbit stared blankly into space. The candy shells crunched, filling gaps between teeth, and I turned the toy's head to the side out of guilt. A chew toy for the neighbors' dogs? Not even a chance of that lucky fate. Two fools built a home without knowing how, one hermit's torn it down for three seasons hence, an inanimate object sums up the wreckage. God, love is simple sometimes.
It takes eight trips to get my condensed life back into my apartment. The two flights of stairs make their play to wear me out, and win. How any of the boxes, bags, and suitcases sum me up is beyond me. How can twenty-eight years of trial and error in the name of discovery be contained within the confines of any combination of parcels? It makes the nomads of Asia Minor seem right; travel light, move like fluid. Someone in what's left of the world must have it nailed. Chances are it's not on this side of the prime meridian. I moved across the Hudson for a better shot at the search. It should've been farther if to be successful, but the coward in me cowered again. The notion of not having the support network that its constituents insist exists kept me local; us, I should say. It's not a pronoun that leaves my lips often and therefore should be celebrated. An only child flips out his phone and dials his impatient mother.
"I'm home and overwhelmed."
"Same here. No welcoming committee?"
"They're on strike. Do you want to come over and help me unpack?"
"At eleven at night?"
"I was kidding."
"No you weren't. You don't sound good."
"What does good sound like?"
"You'll find out one of these days."
"I'm more likely to be killed by a champagne cork, but thanks."
We go back and forth a bit more, then make tentative plans for a homecooked meal. I pry myself from the conversation through the use of a bathroom excuse. She's a good woman deep down-- strong and stubborn as seasoned livestock. But, like in some lessons I've learned on the pavement, we're too similar to ever be close. Two grays don't make a white. It turns out some traits are genetic. I cringe at the possibility of others surfacing as time goes on, visions of my father's fumbling at the forefront. The horror inspires a smoke break like I'm still on a union job.
The Italian joint owned by Albanians is closing as I light up my menthol. My landlord locks the front door of the restaurant, notices me and makes a face implying that he should. In his soupy, struggling accent he asks where I've been for the last two months and what exactly it is that I do. I answer as best I can, but in reality it's an educated guess. The content of my replies sounds convincing. It's the tone that gives it away. My words come out like scrambled eggs. At least I don't give the typical Beacon townie response by blaming it on some failed passion. There's a time and a place for pity. Death row is one of them. Main Street is not. I lead him on by asking if we can pay multiple months' rent to stay ahead just to watch his face light up like a menorah. Sometimes I do that. Some people deserve to be stroked to a lather. I finish my game and bid farewell to the man with the unlevel building.
A family of raccoons scurries down the abandoned sidewalk like refugees from the apocalypse. The mother leads her three cubs down the storm drain in the curb at the corner and I swear I've seen enough. Without hesitation I head back upstairs for the last time that night to mix up some poison and tumble it down since it already feels like I have been.
5.28.2012
Lust a la Cart
But maybe
baby we're getting too old
for this.
Rubbed raw, thirsty
and all lips are swollen.
Cracking bones
and sore quads
from what once
came too easily.
The sweat runs down walls
far too thin
for our neighbors.
Three times a night?
Cut back to twice.
Save a shot for later.
Utilize the flavor saver.
Do we kiss our mothers
with these mouths?
It's a conundrum.
But the curves
of the small
of your back
fit my hands
like the duct-taped
thesaurus
in a poet's
rape kit:
Chloroform.
Candy.
A wig
and some panties.
The flowers have left
the building with Elvis.
5.22.2012
Paint-By-Number Conflagration
There was no imminent threat.
Nothing was behind schedule.
The stores that lined the mall corridor
weren't going anywhere
as I strolled to kill some time.
But when I saw the teacher
who most impacted my life
at the troubled age of ten
when family court was heated
my legs turned into rockets.
There he was, eighteen years later
but not that much had changed.
If anything he looked better.
His barrel belly had disappeared.
Tufts of black hair poked from beneath
the sides of his baseball cap
without a single white reminder.
A gold chain stood out clearly against
the black skin of his neck while he
smiled at the cashier, handing over
what was due. And I, the eternal coward
couldn't give it to him.
He would've seen the tattoos;
perhaps a few lines too deep.
My beard needed a trim
and my shirt was good at
fitting: "Poetic Justice"
it declared across my chest
the ironic smirk sapped from
its wearer, the cynical tables turned.
"Who are you again?"
"What was your major?"
"Where'd you go to college?"
"Why do your hands feel so rough?"
"When did you go wrong?"
"How did you waste such potential?"
It was a barrage of shameful questions
that my colon couldn't handle.
His mouth would not deliver them
though his eyes would tell the truth.
I sped away, a thief of fate
promising to stop as consolation
if he was still there on my way back.
He wasn't.
Opportunity's not stagnant.
It comes and takes its victims
leaving the rest to wonder
and make deals with gods
and demons for a chance
at bitter redemption.
The loudest aren't the weakest;
the ones who go silently are.
My truck served as no refuge.
I turned on the radio
to try to drown them out
but the women laughed in unison:
"The scalpel's in your hand."
Nothing was behind schedule.
The stores that lined the mall corridor
weren't going anywhere
as I strolled to kill some time.
But when I saw the teacher
who most impacted my life
at the troubled age of ten
when family court was heated
my legs turned into rockets.
There he was, eighteen years later
but not that much had changed.
If anything he looked better.
His barrel belly had disappeared.
Tufts of black hair poked from beneath
the sides of his baseball cap
without a single white reminder.
A gold chain stood out clearly against
the black skin of his neck while he
smiled at the cashier, handing over
what was due. And I, the eternal coward
couldn't give it to him.
He would've seen the tattoos;
perhaps a few lines too deep.
My beard needed a trim
and my shirt was good at
fitting: "Poetic Justice"
it declared across my chest
the ironic smirk sapped from
its wearer, the cynical tables turned.
"Who are you again?"
"What was your major?"
"Where'd you go to college?"
"Why do your hands feel so rough?"
"When did you go wrong?"
"How did you waste such potential?"
It was a barrage of shameful questions
that my colon couldn't handle.
His mouth would not deliver them
though his eyes would tell the truth.
I sped away, a thief of fate
promising to stop as consolation
if he was still there on my way back.
He wasn't.
Opportunity's not stagnant.
It comes and takes its victims
leaving the rest to wonder
and make deals with gods
and demons for a chance
at bitter redemption.
The loudest aren't the weakest;
the ones who go silently are.
My truck served as no refuge.
I turned on the radio
to try to drown them out
but the women laughed in unison:
"The scalpel's in your hand."
5.21.2012
Fishing, Mostly Waiting
She's got this smile
reserved for the luckiest
where the corners of her mouth
shoot out to jagged points
as if jerked
by invisible hooks--
like the tips of flower petals;
like arrowheads hitting their mark--
but that's not the case.
Somehow I'm the culprit
and the target
and enthralled.
There's a handwritten list
in my ribcage
of things sworn off for good.
I can't tell you
or you'll assume where you stand
but rest assured
as best you can
with the knowledge
of time's reckoning:
the law of averages
comes through in the clutch.
Words like 'serendipity'
mean more to the starving.
Currently reading:
"The Dark Tower V: Wolves of the Calla" by Stephen King.
reserved for the luckiest
where the corners of her mouth
shoot out to jagged points
as if jerked
by invisible hooks--
like the tips of flower petals;
like arrowheads hitting their mark--
but that's not the case.
Somehow I'm the culprit
and the target
and enthralled.
There's a handwritten list
in my ribcage
of things sworn off for good.
I can't tell you
or you'll assume where you stand
but rest assured
as best you can
with the knowledge
of time's reckoning:
the law of averages
comes through in the clutch.
Words like 'serendipity'
mean more to the starving.
Currently reading:
"The Dark Tower V: Wolves of the Calla" by Stephen King.
5.17.2012
The Nightly Milking
"Do you want your keys back?"
she asks from her doorway
at what I know will be the last time
she sees me intentionally.
Small towns have only so many
dark corners in so many bars
where drunks can hide.
"No. Just don't lose my father's ring,"
I reply, screwing up my face
in a gesture that confused even myself.
He'd given it to me shortly before
going AWOL for five years.
There was a long period of time
when it had more power
than it should've.
I'd put it on the chain before
I headed out of town for two months
and what I knew would be the end
of many things. Funny how we mortals
insist on playing out what's predetermined.
Tending the universe-- what a crock.
She closed the door behind her
before I even got back to my ride.
See Spot run. Watch Mike whine.
Listen to the slurred songs
of a sick and unwed sailor.
Not that it narrows it down any
but I'd just returned from playing
"Angie" on the jukebox when the
newest voice of reason chimed in
with a precious morsel of the unpalatable.
"You're not gonna find your wife at a bar,"
said the whiskey on the rocks in what was
a backhanded consolation and the most
profound sentence stabbed into my ears in months.
It dawned on me like a cheap shot of grain alcohol:
I haven't had a functional relationship
since I was seventeen.
And it's not them. It's me. It has to be
or I wouldn't be here.
Or, I wouldn't be here.
I need to tell my father about those five years.
Something leads me to believe that he already knows.
Something suspects that that's why he left.
That ring with my name inscribed in its gold
was supposed to remind me to remain my own man.
Sometimes a circle binds more than its angles.
Sometimes a ring holds more than it should
at least to those who give it
to all the fine messiahs
and trust the wrong people
with the right things
making the worthy wish we'd never met.
Don't be late for your date with the sun.
she asks from her doorway
at what I know will be the last time
she sees me intentionally.
Small towns have only so many
dark corners in so many bars
where drunks can hide.
"No. Just don't lose my father's ring,"
I reply, screwing up my face
in a gesture that confused even myself.
He'd given it to me shortly before
going AWOL for five years.
There was a long period of time
when it had more power
than it should've.
I'd put it on the chain before
I headed out of town for two months
and what I knew would be the end
of many things. Funny how we mortals
insist on playing out what's predetermined.
Tending the universe-- what a crock.
She closed the door behind her
before I even got back to my ride.
See Spot run. Watch Mike whine.
Listen to the slurred songs
of a sick and unwed sailor.
Not that it narrows it down any
but I'd just returned from playing
"Angie" on the jukebox when the
newest voice of reason chimed in
with a precious morsel of the unpalatable.
"You're not gonna find your wife at a bar,"
said the whiskey on the rocks in what was
a backhanded consolation and the most
profound sentence stabbed into my ears in months.
It dawned on me like a cheap shot of grain alcohol:
I haven't had a functional relationship
since I was seventeen.
And it's not them. It's me. It has to be
or I wouldn't be here.
Or, I wouldn't be here.
I need to tell my father about those five years.
Something leads me to believe that he already knows.
Something suspects that that's why he left.
That ring with my name inscribed in its gold
was supposed to remind me to remain my own man.
Sometimes a circle binds more than its angles.
Sometimes a ring holds more than it should
at least to those who give it
to all the fine messiahs
and trust the wrong people
with the right things
making the worthy wish we'd never met.
Don't be late for your date with the sun.
5.12.2012
Said Sotto Voce
Like partisan fighters
through fences at night
they sneak back to see
the wounds they've inflicted
where roiled lungs lurk
in the mess that's been made
of years' worth of detritus
peddling flesh.
Take no prisoners.
Give no quarter.
Make the most
of the rest of the minced.
No warspoil's worth
our sacrificed sanity.
Play them in close
like they're Aces and Eights.
Within the parameters
and outside the box
is where it's still safe
to diddle Eve's seeds.
Lies like the Husband Stitch
stole through the blight
betting all lips
for this heads'll roll.
Wore out a welcome
in this town too soon.
A brace of pistols sits on the bed.
Anything solid's been bolted down hard.
Nobody moves and no one gets hurt.
Currently reading:
"The Dark Tower IV: Wizard and Glass" by Stephen King.
through fences at night
they sneak back to see
the wounds they've inflicted
where roiled lungs lurk
in the mess that's been made
of years' worth of detritus
peddling flesh.
Take no prisoners.
Give no quarter.
Make the most
of the rest of the minced.
No warspoil's worth
our sacrificed sanity.
Play them in close
like they're Aces and Eights.
Within the parameters
and outside the box
is where it's still safe
to diddle Eve's seeds.
Lies like the Husband Stitch
stole through the blight
betting all lips
for this heads'll roll.
Wore out a welcome
in this town too soon.
A brace of pistols sits on the bed.
Anything solid's been bolted down hard.
Nobody moves and no one gets hurt.
Currently reading:
"The Dark Tower IV: Wizard and Glass" by Stephen King.
5.04.2012
...and the High Horse You Rode In On.
An oblivious colleague
blasts Skynyrd's "Simple Man"
on his SmartPhone
as we sit in the break room
at four in the morning.
I'm brought back
to when an old friend's
cover band used to dedicate
that song to me at gigs.
Seems ages ago.
Seems I haven't listened.
Two hours 'til daylight.
I give up on repentance
and go for a puff outside
where it's seemingly safe
from accusatory lyrics
and failed endeavors.
As I light up near the smoke shack
an old-timer reads my face.
"To be a pipefitter," he says
through nicotine-stained teeth
"you must marry, divorce
and wander the earth
for forty years."
He doesn't get the laugh
he was seeking with his proverb.
The prospect makes me cringe
and consider a career change.
I suck the butt down quickly
and walk back to the trailer.
It's silent in there now.
My book provides refuge
for the remaining three hours
of our shift.
My mind is relatively numbed
except for the time
when a passage I read
sends an old pang of guilt
to the tips of my boots.
I slept with my roommate's
girlfriend in college.
Why?
Because I could
and not get caught.
Karma lasts a lifetime.
The wrenches take their toll.
It wasn't a fair trade
but when has it been
ever?
The day crew comes like cavalry.
We pour out through the gates.
There above the cooling tower
a slew of sharp-winged sparrows
dance where steam usually rises
from this nuclear power plant.
This nomad thinks back
to our almost-matching tattoos
and wonders if she'd do the same.
The problem's not their leaving.
It's that they always will be there.
Currently reading:
"When God Winks at You" by SQuire Rushnell.
blasts Skynyrd's "Simple Man"
on his SmartPhone
as we sit in the break room
at four in the morning.
I'm brought back
to when an old friend's
cover band used to dedicate
that song to me at gigs.
Seems ages ago.
Seems I haven't listened.
Two hours 'til daylight.
I give up on repentance
and go for a puff outside
where it's seemingly safe
from accusatory lyrics
and failed endeavors.
As I light up near the smoke shack
an old-timer reads my face.
"To be a pipefitter," he says
through nicotine-stained teeth
"you must marry, divorce
and wander the earth
for forty years."
He doesn't get the laugh
he was seeking with his proverb.
The prospect makes me cringe
and consider a career change.
I suck the butt down quickly
and walk back to the trailer.
It's silent in there now.
My book provides refuge
for the remaining three hours
of our shift.
My mind is relatively numbed
except for the time
when a passage I read
sends an old pang of guilt
to the tips of my boots.
I slept with my roommate's
girlfriend in college.
Why?
Because I could
and not get caught.
Karma lasts a lifetime.
The wrenches take their toll.
It wasn't a fair trade
but when has it been
ever?
The day crew comes like cavalry.
We pour out through the gates.
There above the cooling tower
a slew of sharp-winged sparrows
dance where steam usually rises
from this nuclear power plant.
This nomad thinks back
to our almost-matching tattoos
and wonders if she'd do the same.
The problem's not their leaving.
It's that they always will be there.
Currently reading:
"When God Winks at You" by SQuire Rushnell.
5.01.2012
26 Lightyears Apart
Soon I'll sleep well
even alone.
There is no doubt
in my mind
that I earned my pay
last night.
The twelve-hour shift
was brutal;
true blood money
for a change.
When we finally came out
a buddy slapped my back
to celebrate the end.
My sweat splattered
off me like I'd been
dunked in a pool.
"Gross," he said
glaring at his palm
in disbelief.
My feet could barely
leave the ground
but I felt myself crack
that smile that people
seem to like
from a distance.
We all rehydrated
as best we could
and waited for
7 am to deliver us
to our respective beds.
But there are other mornings
not so chipper and promising.
There are times of downright
hopelessness where I wonder
why I bother doing anything at all.
Sometimes there's a new cure
for that, though.
All it requires is cell phone service.
And someday
when I can convince myself
that Josh is old enough to get it
I'll tell him that after my roughest days
of work I'd climb in my truck
and play the last voicemail
our father had left me
of my baby brother babbling
and asking where Michael is
in a timbre so innocent
that it's a marvel we share eyes.
It hasn't ceased to work yet.
It always brings me back to center--
"Stay in the middle of the road,"
as my last therapist said.
There's someone I'll have to
guide someday
even if I don't always know
the answer to the kid's question:
"Where are you, Michael?"
He's still hiding
but he'll be back.
even alone.
There is no doubt
in my mind
that I earned my pay
last night.
The twelve-hour shift
was brutal;
true blood money
for a change.
When we finally came out
a buddy slapped my back
to celebrate the end.
My sweat splattered
off me like I'd been
dunked in a pool.
"Gross," he said
glaring at his palm
in disbelief.
My feet could barely
leave the ground
but I felt myself crack
that smile that people
seem to like
from a distance.
We all rehydrated
as best we could
and waited for
7 am to deliver us
to our respective beds.
But there are other mornings
not so chipper and promising.
There are times of downright
hopelessness where I wonder
why I bother doing anything at all.
Sometimes there's a new cure
for that, though.
All it requires is cell phone service.
And someday
when I can convince myself
that Josh is old enough to get it
I'll tell him that after my roughest days
of work I'd climb in my truck
and play the last voicemail
our father had left me
of my baby brother babbling
and asking where Michael is
in a timbre so innocent
that it's a marvel we share eyes.
It hasn't ceased to work yet.
It always brings me back to center--
"Stay in the middle of the road,"
as my last therapist said.
There's someone I'll have to
guide someday
even if I don't always know
the answer to the kid's question:
"Where are you, Michael?"
He's still hiding
but he'll be back.
4.28.2012
The Truth In My Rear-View
Somehow I'm running
on three hours sleep
my foot hard against
the gas pedal's spring.
The truck up ahead
has out of state plates--
we're both hired guns
here for the quick cash.
We storm over
rolling, back-country hills
at warp speed
whizzing by off-season corn
and a river that's lazy and laden with trout
en route to our cherished
but lonely hotels.
Seventy-two in a fifty-five zone
without a care until we come up
on a tired old truck
that's spotted with rust.
It clearly belongs to a native
of here, a farmer or fisherman
or Jack-of-all-trades.
Its cargo of scrap rattles in bed
as the truck putts along
at a turtle's top speed.
My cohort and I take
the first chance we get
to zip around Cletus
and make up lost time.
No finger, no horn
no lights flash at us
as we disregard local
respect for the norm.
It's not until miles
of pavement ahead
that a scene slows me down
to the specified speed.
A house that I've passed
at least thirty times
was gutted by flame
since I've last seen the place.
The firetrucks must come
from townships away
and can't save the timber
in time like back home.
Caution tape lines the yard like a threat.
No Trespassing signs
dot the doors on the porch.
My neck cranes while soaking
the tragedy in and I let my conspirator
race off alone. We're guests in
this town, ours smells just the same
their lives will drag on
long after we're gone.
It takes something more
than a heavy right foot
to make it in such a desolate place.
True grit, some call it, but that's
nothing more than saying
that some folks don't hurry
to death.
All of this is challenged
two days later
when I ask about
the fire
while paying for my gas.
"No one died," she tells me
while reaching for my pack.
"Arson or a meth lab
according to police."
I smirk on my way out
strangely feeling better
since no matter how you spin it
we're all in the same shipwreck.
Currently reading:
"Lone Survivor" by Marcus Luttrell.
on three hours sleep
my foot hard against
the gas pedal's spring.
The truck up ahead
has out of state plates--
we're both hired guns
here for the quick cash.
We storm over
rolling, back-country hills
at warp speed
whizzing by off-season corn
and a river that's lazy and laden with trout
en route to our cherished
but lonely hotels.
Seventy-two in a fifty-five zone
without a care until we come up
on a tired old truck
that's spotted with rust.
It clearly belongs to a native
of here, a farmer or fisherman
or Jack-of-all-trades.
Its cargo of scrap rattles in bed
as the truck putts along
at a turtle's top speed.
My cohort and I take
the first chance we get
to zip around Cletus
and make up lost time.
No finger, no horn
no lights flash at us
as we disregard local
respect for the norm.
It's not until miles
of pavement ahead
that a scene slows me down
to the specified speed.
A house that I've passed
at least thirty times
was gutted by flame
since I've last seen the place.
The firetrucks must come
from townships away
and can't save the timber
in time like back home.
Caution tape lines the yard like a threat.
No Trespassing signs
dot the doors on the porch.
My neck cranes while soaking
the tragedy in and I let my conspirator
race off alone. We're guests in
this town, ours smells just the same
their lives will drag on
long after we're gone.
It takes something more
than a heavy right foot
to make it in such a desolate place.
True grit, some call it, but that's
nothing more than saying
that some folks don't hurry
to death.
All of this is challenged
two days later
when I ask about
the fire
while paying for my gas.
"No one died," she tells me
while reaching for my pack.
"Arson or a meth lab
according to police."
I smirk on my way out
strangely feeling better
since no matter how you spin it
we're all in the same shipwreck.
Currently reading:
"Lone Survivor" by Marcus Luttrell.
4.27.2012
Road Trashed
Your boots aren't off for long enough to let the swamp of sweat evaporate. One costly pair have already gone by the wayside. You learn your lesson and where Walmart is located in the strange town you're temporarily inhabiting.
You save all your receipts in an envelope for your tax guy. If he's worth his salt he'll get back a decent portion of what Uncle Sam robbed from your overtime pay.
You shave your throat once a week no matter what. No one respects a neckbeard and it hurts your eyes to see yourself in such disrepair when you wash up in the morning. If there were women in your hotel they'd be frightened. Your outside appearances matches your soul.
Your meals come at times so random they're not designated with fancy terms like lunch or dinner. You just eat what you want when you're hungry. That's often sardines at three in the morning. No one's there to judge or smell your breath.
Your friendships feel on hold until you'll be around to be one. Relationships are a luxury of the past. You fall in love with your bed and your check, though not necessarily in that order. Rare rest and blood money fuel your heavy steps like phantom forces.
If you get hurt on the job you don't say a word. You wouldn't want an OSHA Recordable. They're frowned upon by the men who sign the checks. You've got other fingers, others hands, other feet. You'll use the ones in better shape. If only you'd been born with doubles of every organ.
Using anything above a three-dollar word becomes pointless. You'll only have to define it afterward and risk being scorned a snob. When in Rome you become Roman and don't ask folks to pardon your French. Anything else would be Greek to them. You swallow words like that last sip of a generously poured cocktail that you know won't end well for anyone involved.
You don't remember the last time you signed your name on so much paperwork. It means less with every feeble stroke of the pen. It crosses your mind that even infanticide can be anonymous. There are rights for things like fixing a problem, but not installing pipes for a living. Still, you make your mark when asked. It's good enough for government work.
Your senses are sharpened, your awareness heightened, despite the fact that you're a walking corpse. You turn your head so abruptly at the delicious sound of a woman's voice that it almost spins off your spine. The floral scent of a lady passing by sends you reeling into a world of fantasies where you don't need the money more than the heartache and none of this has happened. None of this.
Your sex life becomes laughable, an unfamiliar thing of the past. Your reunion with your hand makes you feel like a teenager, though now the novelty's faded. You wonder if you'll ever have intercourse again, let alone engage in what no man admits to doing: making love.
And the sick part, the rub, the thing that makes the least sense to others who haven't done it, and even sometimes yourself, is that there's only one thing on your mind while you drift to somewhere safer as the sun begins ascending: when you'll get the holy chance to do it all over again.
But hasn't that always been your case, oh stubbornly cyclic stranger?
--Michael "Shakespeare" Vahsen, Journeyman Pipefitter, Local Union 373
Nine Mile Point Nuclear Station. Oswego, New York. April 2012.
Currently reading:
"Mockingjay" by Suzanne Collins.
You save all your receipts in an envelope for your tax guy. If he's worth his salt he'll get back a decent portion of what Uncle Sam robbed from your overtime pay.
You shave your throat once a week no matter what. No one respects a neckbeard and it hurts your eyes to see yourself in such disrepair when you wash up in the morning. If there were women in your hotel they'd be frightened. Your outside appearances matches your soul.
Your meals come at times so random they're not designated with fancy terms like lunch or dinner. You just eat what you want when you're hungry. That's often sardines at three in the morning. No one's there to judge or smell your breath.
Your friendships feel on hold until you'll be around to be one. Relationships are a luxury of the past. You fall in love with your bed and your check, though not necessarily in that order. Rare rest and blood money fuel your heavy steps like phantom forces.
If you get hurt on the job you don't say a word. You wouldn't want an OSHA Recordable. They're frowned upon by the men who sign the checks. You've got other fingers, others hands, other feet. You'll use the ones in better shape. If only you'd been born with doubles of every organ.
Using anything above a three-dollar word becomes pointless. You'll only have to define it afterward and risk being scorned a snob. When in Rome you become Roman and don't ask folks to pardon your French. Anything else would be Greek to them. You swallow words like that last sip of a generously poured cocktail that you know won't end well for anyone involved.
You don't remember the last time you signed your name on so much paperwork. It means less with every feeble stroke of the pen. It crosses your mind that even infanticide can be anonymous. There are rights for things like fixing a problem, but not installing pipes for a living. Still, you make your mark when asked. It's good enough for government work.
Your senses are sharpened, your awareness heightened, despite the fact that you're a walking corpse. You turn your head so abruptly at the delicious sound of a woman's voice that it almost spins off your spine. The floral scent of a lady passing by sends you reeling into a world of fantasies where you don't need the money more than the heartache and none of this has happened. None of this.
Your sex life becomes laughable, an unfamiliar thing of the past. Your reunion with your hand makes you feel like a teenager, though now the novelty's faded. You wonder if you'll ever have intercourse again, let alone engage in what no man admits to doing: making love.
And the sick part, the rub, the thing that makes the least sense to others who haven't done it, and even sometimes yourself, is that there's only one thing on your mind while you drift to somewhere safer as the sun begins ascending: when you'll get the holy chance to do it all over again.
But hasn't that always been your case, oh stubbornly cyclic stranger?
--Michael "Shakespeare" Vahsen, Journeyman Pipefitter, Local Union 373
Nine Mile Point Nuclear Station. Oswego, New York. April 2012.
Currently reading:
"Mockingjay" by Suzanne Collins.
4.25.2012
Another Shelved Memento
I almost end a life
with my foot there in the gravel.
The smoke's got me
at ease, my mother's
voice distracted
but I notice the blue oval
right before my boot comes down.
There are no trees
within stone's throw
and the roofline's got no nests
so this windblown robin's egg
will not return to nature.
It's cold to touch already
so I'm guessing it's too late
but I stow it in my pocket
while we end our conversation.
The sorry sack of nerves I am
I take the thing inside.
Some socks within a pot
simulate an incubator.
I turn the bathroom heater on
and leave the manmade nest.
It's doomed to never hatch
if it didn't die in transit.
The sunny side is that
the scrambled chick
was over easy.
It'll wind up on my dresser
with the rest of the sad trinkets--
the reminders that what comes
must go
and all the in-betweens.
Someday someone
who thinks she knows
a shred about her lover
will pick that silly shell up
and ask him what it means.
Currently reading:
"American Sniper" by Chris Kyle.
with my foot there in the gravel.
The smoke's got me
at ease, my mother's
voice distracted
but I notice the blue oval
right before my boot comes down.
There are no trees
within stone's throw
and the roofline's got no nests
so this windblown robin's egg
will not return to nature.
It's cold to touch already
so I'm guessing it's too late
but I stow it in my pocket
while we end our conversation.
The sorry sack of nerves I am
I take the thing inside.
Some socks within a pot
simulate an incubator.
I turn the bathroom heater on
and leave the manmade nest.
It's doomed to never hatch
if it didn't die in transit.
The sunny side is that
the scrambled chick
was over easy.
It'll wind up on my dresser
with the rest of the sad trinkets--
the reminders that what comes
must go
and all the in-betweens.
Someday someone
who thinks she knows
a shred about her lover
will pick that silly shell up
and ask him what it means.
Currently reading:
"American Sniper" by Chris Kyle.
4.20.2012
Another Reason Why I Don't Use Mind-Altering Drugs
No more going to bed on an empty stomach. I dream of what I long for. That kind of ride qualifies as a nightmare, especially when I wake and find it's not there.
I was with her. We were going to ride down with one of her friends to meet a group of people at someone else's house, maybe her uncle's. I don't even know if she has an uncle, but that's where we were going...until I couldn't fit in her friend's vehicle, funnily enough. It was decided I'd ride down with someone else. In an incongruent, dreamworld plot hole, however, I was instantly teleported to our
destination.
Two of her male friends were there waiting as well. We sat on couches in the living room and made awkward small talk. Then a big brute of a man wearing a wifebeater came in and harrassed us a bit. It was his house, he was allowed to. I stood for it, or sat, until he came back a second time. "You and you," he spat, pointing at me and one of the other apparently unwanted guests. "Start sweeping. It's a mess in here."
When he went to procure the brooms I stood up, put my welder's hat on, and made my way for the door. It wasn't worth the aggravation, curly red hair or not. On my way out I bumped into the man's wife and two girls in their twenties, presumably their children. I explained the situation and my desire to bow out gracefully, then continued down the walkway toward the street. I wouldn't make it far, though. My angered host would see to that.
I don't ever recall being hit so hard in a dream that I felt it in reality. Not until now, that is. All of a sudden I received a devastating blow in my left ear that loosened my teeth and caused my right ear drum to pop. A southpaw with a mean sucker-punch. Figures. I saw stars and wound up in the grass, the man's bare arms locked through mine as he pinned me to his lawn.
"How dare you leave without cleaning!" he shouted. "And then to tell my family what I asked of you..."
My head spun as I tried to make sense of it. This nut asked two strangers to sweep the hardwood floor of his living room for no reason and then attacked one of them from behind for choosing to leave instead. What was the world coming to? I was afraid I already knew the answer.
Somehow I managed to wriggle my hand into my right pocket and get a solid grip on my cell phone. I opened it up and went to dial the lady I'd been waiting on, but realized she wouldn't be able to help. Perhaps I merely wanted to hear her voice one last time, to tell her I loved her, to apologize for all the damage I'd done. You know: the usual. I opted for 911 instead, but immediately between thumbing the 9 and the first 1 I reassessed the situation. With this goon on top of me I wouldn't be able to effectively communicate what was going on, let alone my location. It made more sense to take matters into my own hands, or so it seemed at the time.
I ditched the phone and reached down for the razor-sharp pocket knife I always carry-- the one that mysteriously went missing at my ex's house one Christmas, thus forcing me to drop $60 on a replacement. The original turned up again almost a year later. She gave it back, even though we were through by that time. I passed it along to the friend I've known the longest in the hopes that it'd bring him better luck. My presents were great that year, but the presence wasn't. There are some things best left uncelebrated. She was peeved when she found out I gave it to him. That made it all the sweeter. I'd given her enough already, most of which could never have a dollar amount assigned to it. What's the cost of sanity?
But back to that knife. I beg your pardon. My thumb flicked open the actuator and it swung into its glory. I flipped it around in my hand so the blade was protruding from the bottom of my fist and positioned it in front of my assailant's liver. All it'd take was a quick jab and twist to end the senseless, brutal beating being doled out like I'd earned it. I hadn't, at least not as far as this man was concerned. Something inside of me couldn't make that incision, though. There was a fine line between carrying a knife and using one to take human life that I wasn't prepared to cross. For what deceptively seemed like an eternity I held the point to his skin. Finally he felt it poke his gut and wrestled it from my hand. It was all over but the screaming, as my mother used to say. I don't know where he decided to plant that sucker, but I'm aware that it slammed home. I woke with a jerk and felt like one. Killed with my own knife. What a way to go. And all of it happened while waiting for a woman, for my love to arrive. The whole scenario dripped with so much irony that my pillow was literally soaked; at least that's what I figured the thick layer of drool on my face and the linens could represent in a perfect literary world. You know us writers: always looking for meaning in metaphor though we couldn't add our way out of a wet paper bag.
I lost the girl. I didn't save the world. I had my own phallic weapon used against me. I died so hard that I woke up disturbed and haven't been able to sleep again in the four hours since.
When my kids get to the chapter on dad's first time working out of town this is the overcast sky they'll discover. It ain't easy to face the Lake Effect winds alone, let alone nuclear radiation. But like Roland of Gilead, son of Steven and last gunslinger said many times over, "Do not forget the face of your father."
Currently reading:
"Catching Fire" by Suzanne Collins.
I was with her. We were going to ride down with one of her friends to meet a group of people at someone else's house, maybe her uncle's. I don't even know if she has an uncle, but that's where we were going...until I couldn't fit in her friend's vehicle, funnily enough. It was decided I'd ride down with someone else. In an incongruent, dreamworld plot hole, however, I was instantly teleported to our
destination.
Two of her male friends were there waiting as well. We sat on couches in the living room and made awkward small talk. Then a big brute of a man wearing a wifebeater came in and harrassed us a bit. It was his house, he was allowed to. I stood for it, or sat, until he came back a second time. "You and you," he spat, pointing at me and one of the other apparently unwanted guests. "Start sweeping. It's a mess in here."
When he went to procure the brooms I stood up, put my welder's hat on, and made my way for the door. It wasn't worth the aggravation, curly red hair or not. On my way out I bumped into the man's wife and two girls in their twenties, presumably their children. I explained the situation and my desire to bow out gracefully, then continued down the walkway toward the street. I wouldn't make it far, though. My angered host would see to that.
I don't ever recall being hit so hard in a dream that I felt it in reality. Not until now, that is. All of a sudden I received a devastating blow in my left ear that loosened my teeth and caused my right ear drum to pop. A southpaw with a mean sucker-punch. Figures. I saw stars and wound up in the grass, the man's bare arms locked through mine as he pinned me to his lawn.
"How dare you leave without cleaning!" he shouted. "And then to tell my family what I asked of you..."
My head spun as I tried to make sense of it. This nut asked two strangers to sweep the hardwood floor of his living room for no reason and then attacked one of them from behind for choosing to leave instead. What was the world coming to? I was afraid I already knew the answer.
Somehow I managed to wriggle my hand into my right pocket and get a solid grip on my cell phone. I opened it up and went to dial the lady I'd been waiting on, but realized she wouldn't be able to help. Perhaps I merely wanted to hear her voice one last time, to tell her I loved her, to apologize for all the damage I'd done. You know: the usual. I opted for 911 instead, but immediately between thumbing the 9 and the first 1 I reassessed the situation. With this goon on top of me I wouldn't be able to effectively communicate what was going on, let alone my location. It made more sense to take matters into my own hands, or so it seemed at the time.
I ditched the phone and reached down for the razor-sharp pocket knife I always carry-- the one that mysteriously went missing at my ex's house one Christmas, thus forcing me to drop $60 on a replacement. The original turned up again almost a year later. She gave it back, even though we were through by that time. I passed it along to the friend I've known the longest in the hopes that it'd bring him better luck. My presents were great that year, but the presence wasn't. There are some things best left uncelebrated. She was peeved when she found out I gave it to him. That made it all the sweeter. I'd given her enough already, most of which could never have a dollar amount assigned to it. What's the cost of sanity?
But back to that knife. I beg your pardon. My thumb flicked open the actuator and it swung into its glory. I flipped it around in my hand so the blade was protruding from the bottom of my fist and positioned it in front of my assailant's liver. All it'd take was a quick jab and twist to end the senseless, brutal beating being doled out like I'd earned it. I hadn't, at least not as far as this man was concerned. Something inside of me couldn't make that incision, though. There was a fine line between carrying a knife and using one to take human life that I wasn't prepared to cross. For what deceptively seemed like an eternity I held the point to his skin. Finally he felt it poke his gut and wrestled it from my hand. It was all over but the screaming, as my mother used to say. I don't know where he decided to plant that sucker, but I'm aware that it slammed home. I woke with a jerk and felt like one. Killed with my own knife. What a way to go. And all of it happened while waiting for a woman, for my love to arrive. The whole scenario dripped with so much irony that my pillow was literally soaked; at least that's what I figured the thick layer of drool on my face and the linens could represent in a perfect literary world. You know us writers: always looking for meaning in metaphor though we couldn't add our way out of a wet paper bag.
I lost the girl. I didn't save the world. I had my own phallic weapon used against me. I died so hard that I woke up disturbed and haven't been able to sleep again in the four hours since.
When my kids get to the chapter on dad's first time working out of town this is the overcast sky they'll discover. It ain't easy to face the Lake Effect winds alone, let alone nuclear radiation. But like Roland of Gilead, son of Steven and last gunslinger said many times over, "Do not forget the face of your father."
Currently reading:
"Catching Fire" by Suzanne Collins.
4.17.2012
The Gunslinger's Bluff
The features
of his apparition's face
are so soft it's as though
his Maker
used a dull knife
when carving his bones
or didn't bother
to finish whittling.
Then, as a final kidney shot
to whatever chance
the kid had
He slapped some
red hair on his head.
For thirty-five years
he's slinked about
with this curse
though he looks
not a day over my age.
All six-four of him
could easily disappear
back home out west
and very few people
would know the difference.
I can tell.
It's in that baritone false confidence
he whispers all night long.
Part of me feels bad
for not paying more attention
to his tales of female conquest
which bore me more
than counting ceiling tiles.
But when Buffalo's best lover
starts in on giving pointers
I perk up like a puppet
who's suddenly been fisted.
"You've got to talk to women
like you already know them,"
he says regarding the newly acquainted.
My eyes make the rare gesture
of locking with this ginger's
and give it to him straight
since my tongue's not bred for biting.
"If I knew the girl already
I wouldn't waste my breath."
He stares from stupid eyes
now belittled by a cynic
whose words have cut more flesh
than the Good Lord's busy hands.
Smiling, I change the subject.
There are some battles
best left for better men
way out there across
the desert.
When I find my true opponent
I shall take a sandy knee.
of his apparition's face
are so soft it's as though
his Maker
used a dull knife
when carving his bones
or didn't bother
to finish whittling.
Then, as a final kidney shot
to whatever chance
the kid had
He slapped some
red hair on his head.
For thirty-five years
he's slinked about
with this curse
though he looks
not a day over my age.
All six-four of him
could easily disappear
back home out west
and very few people
would know the difference.
I can tell.
It's in that baritone false confidence
he whispers all night long.
Part of me feels bad
for not paying more attention
to his tales of female conquest
which bore me more
than counting ceiling tiles.
But when Buffalo's best lover
starts in on giving pointers
I perk up like a puppet
who's suddenly been fisted.
"You've got to talk to women
like you already know them,"
he says regarding the newly acquainted.
My eyes make the rare gesture
of locking with this ginger's
and give it to him straight
since my tongue's not bred for biting.
"If I knew the girl already
I wouldn't waste my breath."
He stares from stupid eyes
now belittled by a cynic
whose words have cut more flesh
than the Good Lord's busy hands.
Smiling, I change the subject.
There are some battles
best left for better men
way out there across
the desert.
When I find my true opponent
I shall take a sandy knee.
They Should've Stayed In Their Cocoons
I was barely over
the legal limit
on my way home
Monday morning.
My crew stopped
for liquid breakfast
after Sunday night's shift.
The bartender dates
our foreman
so no one could
shoot for the moon.
Free rounds kept coming.
I gave my last chip away
when I started to feel
like staying.
One more brown bottle
may have made
my right foot heavier
during the ride home.
It wasn't worth the jail time.
There were no motivators in sight.
It was the first real
springtime morning
up and out at sixty-five.
God Rays shined down
from between magenta clouds
making fresh grass greener
than the money I'd be making.
In the humid bath tub air
the first brood of butterflies
floated to their deaths
against my windshield
for fourteen semi-sober miles.
I had to veer around
a horse-drawn cart
conducted by an Amish man
in a wide-brimmed black hat.
At first it made me wonder
if I'd felt them more
than I thought, but then
I heard the truck behind me
blow his horn in protest.
When I pulled down
the driveway, parked
and hopped out
lunchbox and backpack in hand
I saw the dusty outlines
of fragile wings
all along my front bumper
and felt immensely guilty
for dousing nature's fire.
A voicemail from my father
set the tone for feeble sleep:
"Hope that you're not lonely
and you're doing well
up there."
I could hear it in his voice.
He knew it all
already.
the legal limit
on my way home
Monday morning.
My crew stopped
for liquid breakfast
after Sunday night's shift.
The bartender dates
our foreman
so no one could
shoot for the moon.
Free rounds kept coming.
I gave my last chip away
when I started to feel
like staying.
One more brown bottle
may have made
my right foot heavier
during the ride home.
It wasn't worth the jail time.
There were no motivators in sight.
It was the first real
springtime morning
up and out at sixty-five.
God Rays shined down
from between magenta clouds
making fresh grass greener
than the money I'd be making.
In the humid bath tub air
the first brood of butterflies
floated to their deaths
against my windshield
for fourteen semi-sober miles.
I had to veer around
a horse-drawn cart
conducted by an Amish man
in a wide-brimmed black hat.
At first it made me wonder
if I'd felt them more
than I thought, but then
I heard the truck behind me
blow his horn in protest.
When I pulled down
the driveway, parked
and hopped out
lunchbox and backpack in hand
I saw the dusty outlines
of fragile wings
all along my front bumper
and felt immensely guilty
for dousing nature's fire.
A voicemail from my father
set the tone for feeble sleep:
"Hope that you're not lonely
and you're doing well
up there."
I could hear it in his voice.
He knew it all
already.
4.15.2012
(I've Been With Women...)
...I should've married.
...who are engaged.
...who deserved me.
...who DESERVED me.
...so innocent they made me seem sadistic.
...so psychotic they made me seem sane.
...who'll take my secrets to the grave.
...who exploited my greatest fears.
...who were out of my league.
...who knew I could do better.
...who said I was a catch.
...who treated me like a chore.
...who were good in bed.
...who were better at sleeping.
...who should've had my children.
...who knew we weren't ready.
...who've hit home.
...who've hit me.
...who still ask how I'm doing.
...who've tried to forget.
...I've never lied to.
...who got tired of catching me.
...who could almost go drink-for-drink.
...who tried being Irish, but only grew horns.
...who encouraged my passion.
...who scoffed at my hobby.
...who deserve a few lines.
...who ruined some songs.
...whom my mom loved.
...whom my mother tolerated.
...who knew it wasn't my dad's fault.
...who blamed my father for my sins.
...who were in the right place at the wrong time.
...whom I should've cut out like a cancer.
...who miss how my saliva feels.
...who know how far I can spit.
Oh God
if You're up there
counting coup
and keeping tally
of all the poor bodies
I've been inside
do this tired clown
one favor
and let them know
I'm sorry.
My only defense is simple:
I've been with women.
...who are engaged.
...who deserved me.
...who DESERVED me.
...so innocent they made me seem sadistic.
...so psychotic they made me seem sane.
...who'll take my secrets to the grave.
...who exploited my greatest fears.
...who were out of my league.
...who knew I could do better.
...who said I was a catch.
...who treated me like a chore.
...who were good in bed.
...who were better at sleeping.
...who should've had my children.
...who knew we weren't ready.
...who've hit home.
...who've hit me.
...who still ask how I'm doing.
...who've tried to forget.
...I've never lied to.
...who got tired of catching me.
...who could almost go drink-for-drink.
...who tried being Irish, but only grew horns.
...who encouraged my passion.
...who scoffed at my hobby.
...who deserve a few lines.
...who ruined some songs.
...whom my mom loved.
...whom my mother tolerated.
...who knew it wasn't my dad's fault.
...who blamed my father for my sins.
...who were in the right place at the wrong time.
...whom I should've cut out like a cancer.
...who miss how my saliva feels.
...who know how far I can spit.
Oh God
if You're up there
counting coup
and keeping tally
of all the poor bodies
I've been inside
do this tired clown
one favor
and let them know
I'm sorry.
My only defense is simple:
I've been with women.
4.13.2012
You Brandish Summer Nights
I slip it
from my pocket
hold it above the wheel
and examine its profile
using illuminated highway
ahead of me.
It's the smallest one
I own, can hide it
in my palm.
Naysayers scoff
at a .22
but in proficient hands
it can do the same job
quieter.
The mob used them
to plant men's faces
in their final bowls of spaghetti.
One behind the ear
rattles around in the skull
scrambling gray mass
like some grotesque
ostrich egg.
I'm no gangster
but I'm good
with what I own.
A closer lane-dazed look
tugs me out of autopilot.
The cylinder is angled
down into the barrel.
It should hit when fired.
It should blow up in my hand
but hasn't
and won't.
There's a grand design beyond me.
What's meant to be will be.
I slide it back where it belongs
and head to my motel room.
The part I can't make up
is that a star fell
in the woods.
They asked us on the psych test
if we believed in signs and symbols.
I told the truth and held my breath.
I'm not sure what it means, though.
from my pocket
hold it above the wheel
and examine its profile
using illuminated highway
ahead of me.
It's the smallest one
I own, can hide it
in my palm.
Naysayers scoff
at a .22
but in proficient hands
it can do the same job
quieter.
The mob used them
to plant men's faces
in their final bowls of spaghetti.
One behind the ear
rattles around in the skull
scrambling gray mass
like some grotesque
ostrich egg.
I'm no gangster
but I'm good
with what I own.
A closer lane-dazed look
tugs me out of autopilot.
The cylinder is angled
down into the barrel.
It should hit when fired.
It should blow up in my hand
but hasn't
and won't.
There's a grand design beyond me.
What's meant to be will be.
I slide it back where it belongs
and head to my motel room.
The part I can't make up
is that a star fell
in the woods.
They asked us on the psych test
if we believed in signs and symbols.
I told the truth and held my breath.
I'm not sure what it means, though.
4.12.2012
A Cannibal's Trophy
Samson made a riddle
of a lion's head and honey.
Samson made a mess
when he trusted in Delilah.
She took his hair, they burnt
his eyes, and squared up
for the jaw bone.
Samson made a few mistakes
that outweighed all his strength.
I'm waiting for a verdict, too.
The blade is in the fire.
This one's meant to cauterize
a wound that's bleeding out.
A word will come to sear
the skin, my callous will be formed
and nothing like a hero
I'll go back to taking scalps.
of a lion's head and honey.
Samson made a mess
when he trusted in Delilah.
She took his hair, they burnt
his eyes, and squared up
for the jaw bone.
Samson made a few mistakes
that outweighed all his strength.
I'm waiting for a verdict, too.
The blade is in the fire.
This one's meant to cauterize
a wound that's bleeding out.
A word will come to sear
the skin, my callous will be formed
and nothing like a hero
I'll go back to taking scalps.
4.08.2012
Some Sacrilege to Warm the Ham
On the day
when "He is risen"
gets rammed into
ears of children
as they search
for painted eggs
and the candy
rots their teeth
I find it unimpressive
how the clergy
slung their story
with a stone rolled
to the side
and some linens
left behind.
It'd make for
better headlines
and more candles
lit on street shrines
if their hero
kept His promise
and remained
among the dead
but instead He stole
His thunder
and pulled some strings
with Daddy.
Martyrdom's prerequisite
is rotting with the rest of them.
Currently reading:
"The Waste Lands: The Dark Tower III" by Stephen King.
when "He is risen"
gets rammed into
ears of children
as they search
for painted eggs
and the candy
rots their teeth
I find it unimpressive
how the clergy
slung their story
with a stone rolled
to the side
and some linens
left behind.
It'd make for
better headlines
and more candles
lit on street shrines
if their hero
kept His promise
and remained
among the dead
but instead He stole
His thunder
and pulled some strings
with Daddy.
Martyrdom's prerequisite
is rotting with the rest of them.
Currently reading:
"The Waste Lands: The Dark Tower III" by Stephen King.
4.07.2012
On Picking Wildflowers
Call me Ishmael.
Call me Ahab.
Call me anything
but late for dinner.
There are times
to use words
to cut down
at the knees
but this one is best
left in silence
where you like me.
Do you know where you belong?
Four-out-of-five dentists agree--
Sugar makes
the world go 'round
and suds slow it down
to a dizzying spin.
The two women
with taut tethers
to my heart
suggest I sprout a set.
Here it is:
Call me Ahab.
Call me anything
but late for dinner.
There are times
to use words
to cut down
at the knees
but this one is best
left in silence
where you like me.
Do you know where you belong?
Four-out-of-five dentists agree--
Sugar makes
the world go 'round
and suds slow it down
to a dizzying spin.
The two women
with taut tethers
to my heart
suggest I sprout a set.
Here it is:
4.03.2012
Comedic Timing; or, At Least I'm Not the Only One
He almost resembles
a humanized Muppet
a caricature of himself
a beer-soaked plumber of sixty
with white hair wrapped
around a shiny, liver-spotted dome.
Words jiggle through
his loose-skinned throat
with an elder's authority
that can't be faked convincingly
by a cocksure youngbuck.
In every other sentence
he refers to the listener as 'guy'
a trademark poorly reproduced
by impersonators in the local.
The Silver Bullet next to him
on the counter
has freed his lips
to share with the grateful stranger
who's doing the dishes
for the third night this week.
"It's almost time to call the bride,"
he confesses to the can
and whoever else is listening.
What's not to admire
about that quaint expression?
It keeps their love young, makes
the matrimony seem as fresh
as yesterday's bad news.
"Twenty-five years
and we've never had an argument..."
he brags while his pale blue eyes lock
with a set of dark marbles
trying not to flinch
with Heineken and envy.
"...That I've won."
The kitchen roars
with sympathetic laughter
or it does in this sterile placebo
while the hen-pecked victor
proceeds to tap the Rockies.
All is as it should be.
We mortal men are tamed.
Somewhere in the distance
a fox outruns its tail.
a humanized Muppet
a caricature of himself
a beer-soaked plumber of sixty
with white hair wrapped
around a shiny, liver-spotted dome.
Words jiggle through
his loose-skinned throat
with an elder's authority
that can't be faked convincingly
by a cocksure youngbuck.
In every other sentence
he refers to the listener as 'guy'
a trademark poorly reproduced
by impersonators in the local.
The Silver Bullet next to him
on the counter
has freed his lips
to share with the grateful stranger
who's doing the dishes
for the third night this week.
"It's almost time to call the bride,"
he confesses to the can
and whoever else is listening.
What's not to admire
about that quaint expression?
It keeps their love young, makes
the matrimony seem as fresh
as yesterday's bad news.
"Twenty-five years
and we've never had an argument..."
he brags while his pale blue eyes lock
with a set of dark marbles
trying not to flinch
with Heineken and envy.
"...That I've won."
The kitchen roars
with sympathetic laughter
or it does in this sterile placebo
while the hen-pecked victor
proceeds to tap the Rockies.
All is as it should be.
We mortal men are tamed.
Somewhere in the distance
a fox outruns its tail.
4.01.2012
Congrats, Brock Davenport
In the hours between
waking and dawn
when my begging bladder
longs for release
come the dreams
that can only
belong to a leper
praying for one chance
at redemption.
Words flow like antifreeze
almost as sweet
with a host of those folks
who in daylight, in real time
would not drop their zippers
if I were in flames.
Sometimes they buy it.
Some mates are stale.
There's always a jolt
when the ruse is discovered--
Waking to radio silence and cereal
for the sixth time this week
along with the blues.
Victories in the world of the conscious
come as the flipside to smaller defeats:
She finally got her single karat
square cut diamond
and one loser claps
from the nosebleed seats.
waking and dawn
when my begging bladder
longs for release
come the dreams
that can only
belong to a leper
praying for one chance
at redemption.
Words flow like antifreeze
almost as sweet
with a host of those folks
who in daylight, in real time
would not drop their zippers
if I were in flames.
Sometimes they buy it.
Some mates are stale.
There's always a jolt
when the ruse is discovered--
Waking to radio silence and cereal
for the sixth time this week
along with the blues.
Victories in the world of the conscious
come as the flipside to smaller defeats:
She finally got her single karat
square cut diamond
and one loser claps
from the nosebleed seats.
Right Church. Wrong Pew.
For five years his voice
scared the piss out of me.
Now it's a reminder of
how relative things are.
I heard it last night
in the form of a message.
When he called
I sent him to voice mail
since I didn't feel up to
pretending to be anything
than what I was: lonesome
in a crowd.
As soon as he finished
I dialed and listened.
"Hi, Mike. It's Dad.
Josh keeps running
around the house
saying 'Michael, where are you?'
It's really cute."
He hands the phone
to my two-year-old brother
for corroboration.
"Mi-cull. Broth-er,"
he chirps into the mouthpiece
with an innocence
that can't help
but make me smile
even though I can hear
him being coaxed
a bit from the background.
"Where are you, Mi-cull?
Mommy says..." and then
our father repossesses the phone
while the kid stumbles through
unchartered linguistic territory
that's still mostly undiscernible.
"See? I told you, he misses you.
I took him swimming last week.
He's treading water."
There was more to the recording
but all I could think of
from that point forward
was that one more thing
was shared between the boy and me
aside from common genes.
Treading water, huh?
You and me both, brother.
Let's stay in the game
'til you're old enough
for me to buy you
a celebratory cocktail
or four.
I'll do what he didn't.
I'll tell you where I went wrong
to give you a running start.
You'll never forget
at least one dress
whether or not
you deserved its contents.
Keep kickin'.
Currently reading:
"The Drawing of the Three: The Dark Tower II" by Stephen King.
scared the piss out of me.
Now it's a reminder of
how relative things are.
I heard it last night
in the form of a message.
When he called
I sent him to voice mail
since I didn't feel up to
pretending to be anything
than what I was: lonesome
in a crowd.
As soon as he finished
I dialed and listened.
"Hi, Mike. It's Dad.
Josh keeps running
around the house
saying 'Michael, where are you?'
It's really cute."
He hands the phone
to my two-year-old brother
for corroboration.
"Mi-cull. Broth-er,"
he chirps into the mouthpiece
with an innocence
that can't help
but make me smile
even though I can hear
him being coaxed
a bit from the background.
"Where are you, Mi-cull?
Mommy says..." and then
our father repossesses the phone
while the kid stumbles through
unchartered linguistic territory
that's still mostly undiscernible.
"See? I told you, he misses you.
I took him swimming last week.
He's treading water."
There was more to the recording
but all I could think of
from that point forward
was that one more thing
was shared between the boy and me
aside from common genes.
Treading water, huh?
You and me both, brother.
Let's stay in the game
'til you're old enough
for me to buy you
a celebratory cocktail
or four.
I'll do what he didn't.
I'll tell you where I went wrong
to give you a running start.
You'll never forget
at least one dress
whether or not
you deserved its contents.
Keep kickin'.
Currently reading:
"The Drawing of the Three: The Dark Tower II" by Stephen King.
3.30.2012
The Donning and Doffing of Weekly Apartments
It's as good a place as any
to churn up my stomach
at the end of a shift.
Horrid wallpaper
nail-holed wood paneling
and peeling linoleum
help see to that.
The claustrophobic choke
of their dreary earth tones
are aided by the poorly installed
drop-ceiling, its tiles of three types.
Thumbtacks hold
the curtains back
and staples fasten signs
to walls in the kitchen
reminding me when to leave
and not to smoke.
God forbid an outlet's grounded
or any lumber leveled, squared.
There's a clock on the wall ticking away
precious seconds of my life
though none of its three hands
see me worth their movement--
a metronome, a cadence, a soundtrack
to the madness that shall undoubtedly ensue
with or without the presence of poison.
If anything matches it's a coincidence
possibly a blunder. The couch's burlap fabric
could probably rub off skin, though I wouldn't know
for certain since I haven't felt the need.
I'll assume the boob-tube works sans disturbing
dusty buttons. There are far more
fitting ways to rot what's left of brain cells.
If one rides on the porcelain
he risks his sliding forward as a draft comes
through the molding to laugh and taunt at feet.
Doors of cabinets won't close
and a sadist did the paint job. Still
I'll call this home until it's time for me
to leave.
"The bed, man! The mattress! What of its
ancient springs? Surely the blanket
is moth-eaten and the sheets are stained
with strangers' blood."
I tell you, friend, I can't complain.
I sleep like a lamb amongst lions
so long as that balled-up tank top
which I've never worn
emits its fragrant magic
from the altar erected
of a pillowcase as fair
as her tenderest of skin
which I, once this job ends
will be privy to again
unlike the jealous sun.
to churn up my stomach
at the end of a shift.
Horrid wallpaper
nail-holed wood paneling
and peeling linoleum
help see to that.
The claustrophobic choke
of their dreary earth tones
are aided by the poorly installed
drop-ceiling, its tiles of three types.
Thumbtacks hold
the curtains back
and staples fasten signs
to walls in the kitchen
reminding me when to leave
and not to smoke.
God forbid an outlet's grounded
or any lumber leveled, squared.
There's a clock on the wall ticking away
precious seconds of my life
though none of its three hands
see me worth their movement--
a metronome, a cadence, a soundtrack
to the madness that shall undoubtedly ensue
with or without the presence of poison.
If anything matches it's a coincidence
possibly a blunder. The couch's burlap fabric
could probably rub off skin, though I wouldn't know
for certain since I haven't felt the need.
I'll assume the boob-tube works sans disturbing
dusty buttons. There are far more
fitting ways to rot what's left of brain cells.
If one rides on the porcelain
he risks his sliding forward as a draft comes
through the molding to laugh and taunt at feet.
Doors of cabinets won't close
and a sadist did the paint job. Still
I'll call this home until it's time for me
to leave.
"The bed, man! The mattress! What of its
ancient springs? Surely the blanket
is moth-eaten and the sheets are stained
with strangers' blood."
I tell you, friend, I can't complain.
I sleep like a lamb amongst lions
so long as that balled-up tank top
which I've never worn
emits its fragrant magic
from the altar erected
of a pillowcase as fair
as her tenderest of skin
which I, once this job ends
will be privy to again
unlike the jealous sun.
3.24.2012
On Petting Burning Dogs (When There's No Option C)
Cigarette ash
falls to the tip
of your black leather shoe
as you knock on his door
being sure to stand to the side
even though there's no peephole.
Too many detective shows
watched growing up
but you won't solve this one--
You're no Dave Duchovny
sex-crazed or sober.
The light was on, you saw it
from the street, but still
no one answers
this wood thick with paint
and years of nicotine stains
between you and the truth.
It's odd, smoking in the third-floor hallway
of a derelict tenement, but no one here will mind.
Tobacco's the least of the sins
on these premises, especially this late at night.
This is what happens
when the day's good deed
brings you to the scene
of a crime.
So you leave
but still love him.
He drinks Coke
but not Pepsi.
The ancient case is cracked:
We're all our worst foes;
some go to extremes.
A train coming at you
(not being conducted
by a prominent male figure
in your life
since that'd be too predictable)
with time only
to push one out
of the way:
the junkie you've known forever
(and haven't they all been
one way or another?)
or an innocent bystander
(who may as well not have a face).
All they find are your shoes
on the tracks, feet still in them
and a few Marlboro butts
smoked by the lone survivor.
(Don't feel bad. There was
no other person standing there.
Is there ever?)
Even in dreams
you die alone.
falls to the tip
of your black leather shoe
as you knock on his door
being sure to stand to the side
even though there's no peephole.
Too many detective shows
watched growing up
but you won't solve this one--
You're no Dave Duchovny
sex-crazed or sober.
The light was on, you saw it
from the street, but still
no one answers
this wood thick with paint
and years of nicotine stains
between you and the truth.
It's odd, smoking in the third-floor hallway
of a derelict tenement, but no one here will mind.
Tobacco's the least of the sins
on these premises, especially this late at night.
This is what happens
when the day's good deed
brings you to the scene
of a crime.
So you leave
but still love him.
He drinks Coke
but not Pepsi.
The ancient case is cracked:
We're all our worst foes;
some go to extremes.
A train coming at you
(not being conducted
by a prominent male figure
in your life
since that'd be too predictable)
with time only
to push one out
of the way:
the junkie you've known forever
(and haven't they all been
one way or another?)
or an innocent bystander
(who may as well not have a face).
All they find are your shoes
on the tracks, feet still in them
and a few Marlboro butts
smoked by the lone survivor.
(Don't feel bad. There was
no other person standing there.
Is there ever?)
Even in dreams
you die alone.
3.22.2012
Nuclear Reminders
I'm not even sure
if it's real gold or not.
My father was never
much of a spender
but he insisted
that the jeweler he met
on his pilgrimage to Israel
five years ago
was selling rings
like they rose out of the sand.
Not being one to miss out
on a deal, he called me
long distance and had me
get sized.
(A ten or eleven, though
I've since forgotten.)
The girl at the counter
wished well to the groom.
The snake oil token
would soon be delivered.
When he came back stateside
and presented it to me
over dinner at his favorite diner
I was rather confused by his reasoning
as usual. It was scrawled with funny lines
on either side of what looked
like a lobster. Upon seeing
the bewilderment on my face
the old man clarified:
my name, Michael David
inscribed in Hebrew
with a menorah in the middle
for good Godly measure.
All of this came as a shock to me
being that we're not Jewish.
I thanked him and tucked it into
my pocket for safekeeping
until I could get home to toss it
onto my dresser where it'd
collect dust with the other
knickknacks time, unlike me, had forgotten:
fortune cookie proverbs;
forklift keys;
hair ties belonging to lovelies long gone;
bits of cardboard with bits of lines
when I should've bitten my tongue.
An ironic Holy Land T-shirt would've sufficed
but that ring, real or not
took on a new role
when the rift hit
that November
like Axl's shrill downpour.
For over five years
my dad was estranged
too jaded by Jesus
and sins of our fathers
to acknowledge that sons
have clouds of their own.
His last gift was treasured
if only for its timing.
Tried wearing it once
but it wasn't my style
even with the image
turned in toward my palm.
The ring rode in pockets.
It hung from a chain.
A few heartless sadists
I mistakenly laid with
tried stealing it on me--
they knew where to cut.
It went into hiding
within my steel safe
flat on one side
where a drunkard had thrown it
against his bedroom wall
during a dark time
when a father's words would've
worked wonders while waiting
for the world to rewind.
Its inscription never told me
who I was, or why.
Funny how letters don't always
give meaning.
With him back around now
it won't be the last.
He's already given me
plumbing work, guns
and a bouncing baby boy
whom I can call brother.
My ring was recommissioned
linked onto a keychain
late at night near
the time of my birthday.
I'll be far upstate
on a powerhouse job
while its keeper
holds down what's left
of the fort.
I ain't got gold
and I ain't got money
but I'll happily share
the fortune I've found.
Currently reading:
"Pulp" by Charles Bukowski.
if it's real gold or not.
My father was never
much of a spender
but he insisted
that the jeweler he met
on his pilgrimage to Israel
five years ago
was selling rings
like they rose out of the sand.
Not being one to miss out
on a deal, he called me
long distance and had me
get sized.
(A ten or eleven, though
I've since forgotten.)
The girl at the counter
wished well to the groom.
The snake oil token
would soon be delivered.
When he came back stateside
and presented it to me
over dinner at his favorite diner
I was rather confused by his reasoning
as usual. It was scrawled with funny lines
on either side of what looked
like a lobster. Upon seeing
the bewilderment on my face
the old man clarified:
my name, Michael David
inscribed in Hebrew
with a menorah in the middle
for good Godly measure.
All of this came as a shock to me
being that we're not Jewish.
I thanked him and tucked it into
my pocket for safekeeping
until I could get home to toss it
onto my dresser where it'd
collect dust with the other
knickknacks time, unlike me, had forgotten:
fortune cookie proverbs;
forklift keys;
hair ties belonging to lovelies long gone;
bits of cardboard with bits of lines
when I should've bitten my tongue.
An ironic Holy Land T-shirt would've sufficed
but that ring, real or not
took on a new role
when the rift hit
that November
like Axl's shrill downpour.
For over five years
my dad was estranged
too jaded by Jesus
and sins of our fathers
to acknowledge that sons
have clouds of their own.
His last gift was treasured
if only for its timing.
Tried wearing it once
but it wasn't my style
even with the image
turned in toward my palm.
The ring rode in pockets.
It hung from a chain.
A few heartless sadists
I mistakenly laid with
tried stealing it on me--
they knew where to cut.
It went into hiding
within my steel safe
flat on one side
where a drunkard had thrown it
against his bedroom wall
during a dark time
when a father's words would've
worked wonders while waiting
for the world to rewind.
Its inscription never told me
who I was, or why.
Funny how letters don't always
give meaning.
With him back around now
it won't be the last.
He's already given me
plumbing work, guns
and a bouncing baby boy
whom I can call brother.
My ring was recommissioned
linked onto a keychain
late at night near
the time of my birthday.
I'll be far upstate
on a powerhouse job
while its keeper
holds down what's left
of the fort.
I ain't got gold
and I ain't got money
but I'll happily share
the fortune I've found.
Currently reading:
"Pulp" by Charles Bukowski.
3.19.2012
Coeducational
The edges of memory
are blurred to the point
of questioning boundaries
the details, exchanges.
What does the heart
choose to remember
when the mind and the shaft
have forgotten the truth?
A twin long bed, Christmas lights
bourbon, desire
to raze a sure crop
since the penchant's genetic.
Dorm room rules
were thrown through
the windows
of suites too big
to fit we immortals.
The classes came easy
the hangovers hard
and the tale tells the rest
of countless young prospects
cursing, and spitting, and pumping
through credits
that may or may not
have earned a framed parchment.
Some saw the change
from freshman to sophomore--
a cocky young protege
feeling his oats.
The subject himself
could not sense the calm
waiting before
the foreshadowed storm.
Sour mix mornings
and counterfeit handles
were strewn through the hallways
of a State-funded campus.
Drool on the pillowcase
blood on the sheets
and a girl, exits south, tongue-tied
and belittled
by a fool in dark denim
and black too-tight T-shirts
who held what he thought
were the reins that were promised
by good marks in high school
and pats on the back
from mentors and cohorts
forgetting the odds.
But he made it through death
as he makes it through lay-offs
and bills that come promptly
and rent through the roof.
Sometimes he wonders
if things had been different
would that girl who loved dresses
still toss to the floor
the fabric as thin
as the threads that are tethered
to fates that are options
if strong cards are bet.
He knows what he's holding
this time around.
Not even the Dealer
can pry free his hand.
are blurred to the point
of questioning boundaries
the details, exchanges.
What does the heart
choose to remember
when the mind and the shaft
have forgotten the truth?
A twin long bed, Christmas lights
bourbon, desire
to raze a sure crop
since the penchant's genetic.
Dorm room rules
were thrown through
the windows
of suites too big
to fit we immortals.
The classes came easy
the hangovers hard
and the tale tells the rest
of countless young prospects
cursing, and spitting, and pumping
through credits
that may or may not
have earned a framed parchment.
Some saw the change
from freshman to sophomore--
a cocky young protege
feeling his oats.
The subject himself
could not sense the calm
waiting before
the foreshadowed storm.
Sour mix mornings
and counterfeit handles
were strewn through the hallways
of a State-funded campus.
Drool on the pillowcase
blood on the sheets
and a girl, exits south, tongue-tied
and belittled
by a fool in dark denim
and black too-tight T-shirts
who held what he thought
were the reins that were promised
by good marks in high school
and pats on the back
from mentors and cohorts
forgetting the odds.
But he made it through death
as he makes it through lay-offs
and bills that come promptly
and rent through the roof.
Sometimes he wonders
if things had been different
would that girl who loved dresses
still toss to the floor
the fabric as thin
as the threads that are tethered
to fates that are options
if strong cards are bet.
He knows what he's holding
this time around.
Not even the Dealer
can pry free his hand.
3.15.2012
Three Drivers, One Song
It was a week ago
but relevant now
as it was then
and will be until
the nukes stop
the seasons.
A passing schoolbus honked
as I settled into a chair
on my friend's sunsoaked porch
and cracked an ex-cold beer.
My head jerked up
from my bottle in time
to catch the driver's raised thumb
as she rolled down the lane.
She'd be doing the same
as soon as she could.
I commenced vicarious living.
Then there was the hearse
cruise-controlling up the Thruway.
Its driver, almost fifty
but could pass for thirty-eight
lingered long enough
in the non-passing lane
for me to see the smoke
careening from his Marlboro.
Was it wrong
or unprofessional
in today's antiseptic society?
He caught me staring, shrugged
and I nodded in agreement.
The deceased wouldn't mind
one more in his name--
the one taped somberly
to the black Caddy's window.
An homage, considered
by honorable thieves
replete with caveats.
I pressed harder and passed
them. There was nothing more
to see but doomed floral arrangements
and I'd had enough of those.
There are fleeting cosmic moments
when one knows one's not alone
and another soul's in tune.
Sometimes they happen
with clothes on, too.
Most times the grain's involved.
It's a reminder:
You can only go halfway
into the woods;
any further and you're coming out.
Currently reading:
"The Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins.
but relevant now
as it was then
and will be until
the nukes stop
the seasons.
A passing schoolbus honked
as I settled into a chair
on my friend's sunsoaked porch
and cracked an ex-cold beer.
My head jerked up
from my bottle in time
to catch the driver's raised thumb
as she rolled down the lane.
She'd be doing the same
as soon as she could.
I commenced vicarious living.
Then there was the hearse
cruise-controlling up the Thruway.
Its driver, almost fifty
but could pass for thirty-eight
lingered long enough
in the non-passing lane
for me to see the smoke
careening from his Marlboro.
Was it wrong
or unprofessional
in today's antiseptic society?
He caught me staring, shrugged
and I nodded in agreement.
The deceased wouldn't mind
one more in his name--
the one taped somberly
to the black Caddy's window.
An homage, considered
by honorable thieves
replete with caveats.
I pressed harder and passed
them. There was nothing more
to see but doomed floral arrangements
and I'd had enough of those.
There are fleeting cosmic moments
when one knows one's not alone
and another soul's in tune.
Sometimes they happen
with clothes on, too.
Most times the grain's involved.
It's a reminder:
You can only go halfway
into the woods;
any further and you're coming out.
Currently reading:
"The Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins.
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