A Terror to the Savage

I've seen their palest skin
where it's calm under the cotton
the curtain call of twenty-four
and all the King's best men.
Compared to petting burning dogs
I'm a solid wager.
The theater has been emptied;
still all these palls to bear.

A threat posed like a mannequin
seeps down beneath the rifts
that we never would suspect.
Some eat the windfall apples.

When father's lure caught lakeside branch
there never came rebuke.
A sentence that would slice too late:
"You've got a lot to learn, son."

$12.99

She came bearing a gift
contained within a bottle:
New Zealand's proudest grape
as per his request.
Some friends converged
in honor of a day
they draped in scarlet.
The march home
had cigarettes, missed calls
from one missed lover.

In the morning
when he found it
there wasn't much surprise.
The bag held the receipt
and the value of his life.

There are terms
like "martial artist".
The female knows of blood.
He hopes seats aren't assigned
in whatever they deem Hell.

The Breakdown

Photographers are painters
with slightly less ambition.
Painters are but writers
afraid of the true challenge.
Writers are skewed historians;
scientists stumped by time travel.

Let's hope the threat is shallow
and those who can't
don't teach.

We All Have Our Reasons

This hellion stands
smoking at his post
listening to the flakes
as they hit the awning above
and a stubborn motorist
in the distance of a still night.

Across the street
a known neighbor
works at the sidewalk's snow
though he doesn't live
on that side of the drag.
The Samaritan pauses
looking up from his silent toil
causing the guilted party
to retract into the safety
of his building's concrete vestibule.

We wonder what it was
to catch and kill magicians
but really, through some sifting
the meek already know.

Battered, resilient
in clothes befitting peasants
a better man throws
what Mother Nature's dropped.
Having defeated much
but not enough
he shovels for himself.


Currently reading:
"Texas Devils" by Michael Collins.

The Spinster That Scares Me

My greatness is not readily perceived.
Even when I let neighbors
smoke in my apartment
it's unnoticed.
They probably assume
I've made a habit of that.

I dated a man once
who used his knife
so gingerly
to persuade food
onto his fork.
Three years later
I do the same
and cringe
at picking up
his mannerisms
like poison from a plate
my stomach's rejected.

A woman like me
says more by saying nothing
neither waving nor drowning
in this river of indifference.

I almost felt bad
for my overripe onion
that sprouted and tried
to set its own roots.
Had it been summer
I would have tried planting.
Instead I chopped chives
and fried a blue omelet.

He's out there flailing.
For now I paint sunsets
and hang them in closets
where no one can see.
It's a matter of shared profit loss
before I'm discontinued
like my childhood perfume.

Serrated

The mail-order quality knife set
that Meg bought for my birthday
two years ago is slowly falling apart.
Handles break when there's company.
Blades rust in the sink.

Rather than ditch it entirely
I let the joke play out
like, "Maybe I won't answer
the next time that she calls,"
or, "Maybe that cutlery's
stainless as it claims."

It's hard to replace
what you never had
and China will never be Germany.

A Reluctant Matador

Exiled from bed
by a stranger's shameless snoring;
a sin only endearing
when the victim
paws at quarry.
Instead these novice saviors
flood the gates
with raw incentives
though none taste like
stale cigarettes
nor other ancient innocence.

Fellate, filet, and file.
Incinerate the vine.
A mattress is an altar
with a sacrifice that varies.
Listen for the asthma.
Spare none but the willing.
Plug your ears with cotton.
That's not Christ.
It's heartburn.


Currently reading:
"Lana Turner, Vol. 6"

Tail

We're careful observers
who may or may not offend
those who aren't careful.

We're kids who loved to play
but hadn't enough toys.

We're that special breed
of craftsman
who swears he could rebuild Troy
through skilled renovation
and without any horse.

We'd rather excrete than eat.

No secret we hear is sacred.
Every word uttered is fair game to field
as long as we change the names
at least slightly.

If we pooled all our knowledge
there'd still be a question.

At the end of the day
and the end of the sentence
we do it for the same reason
that rock stars first picked up guitars:

For a Vagabond Who Could've Housed Me

You disappeared
so hard and without warning
that snow fell from the sky
and the sun sank backwards
the next morning.

They still can't prove
what day of the week
He was crucified
but I know you left on a Thursday
and I know you took everything with you.

We could've been our greatest regrets.

Soma Smithereens

Neither parent
recalls the making
of my first memory.
I asked them last week
in their separate houses
when their second spouses
weren't around.

I'm grateful that night
is all mine, shriek and all.
And maybe that's why
when I turn on a lamp
three decades later
I still expect it to fly.

The Traps of Small-Town Dating

This week's toll necessitates the oak
but the only seat in the house
is right next to another botched attempt.
You take it anyway
because if you don't
then you've lost twice.
There are worse fates
than sitting next to the most beautiful woman
in the room who's pretending not to notice.
You could be laying in a hospital burn unit
or your socks could be wet.

Of all people
she's with the biggest fraud in town
laughing at his overplayed jokes
writing notes on napkins
shoulder dancing on stools to the band
you wish you'd cordially ignored.
The first time her arm brushes against yours
you think she's rubbing it in
but by the fourth offense you realize
it's that you're not even there.
You could tell her how much
that latest painting moved you
a moment captured in a medium
respectfully out of your grasp
but you settle for watching her buy
their round of beer
and take the consolation
in knowing you wouldn't
have let that happen.
You wash your aspirations
of chivalrous nobility
down with one last swig
clap for your friends
descending from the stage
and walk back to the guillotine
where you pay to lay your head.

On your way home
a handful of stars
maintains your gaze
and you remember
that you met her
at a barbecue
where you caught fireflies.
One of you's still trying.

Bastard's Apology

To Whom It May Concern:

I'm writing in regards to a shower curtain
your company produces and distributes
("THE WORLD"
RN#61945
Saturday Knight Ltd.
100% PEVA
Wipe clean with a damp cloth
Made in China
[Spanish and French translations, respectively]).

While it "makes" the bathroom
with its novelty nature
and has provided hours of efficient
multitasking in the name of education
I find it necessary to voice a concern.

There's a small country
between Pakistan
and Tajikistan
without a label.
Everyone deserves a name.

[Oh God, Olivia--
I'm sorry.
If we had a place for you 
right now
I swear on my life
you'd be here
breathing.]

Please devise a plan
to alter future runs.

Graciously,

[Unsigned]

Ahab's Lament

The vain do not suicide.
The meek never live.
Those who bless most
have nothing to give.

Caught archers lose fingers;
trapped thieves, robbed of hands.
Brash fornicators
meet higher demands.

The whoremaster's humbled.
Prepare the harpoons.
Here come more allies
to suck on his wounds.

So march from the gallows.
Rise from the Chair.
Heaven's tomorrow.
See you all there.

An Antephialtic Sabbath

I remember Sunday afternoons. They've been crystallized in brain cells, impossible to repeat.

Church was a prerequisite for lounging on the couch with Dad. Mom couldn't get me to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich like normal kids did, but I'd wolf down sardines and Saltines with my sole male role model. Childhood is a time of emulation in its most comedic form. Life gets more perverse as the cans and communion cups pile up through the years. It seemed that "Stand By Me" played on Channel 11 every other month. That adolescent quest became a form of pop-culture folklore. Rays of orange sunlight would pour in at low angles through the windows and all would be well in the world, at least until the school bus made its rounds on Monday morning.

Fast-forward fifteen years and the imagery gets bleak. A man without a father fumbling through young adulthood. Unchecked debauchery of Gomorrahan proportions. Hangovers so bad that legs are nearly useless. Sunday afternoons in bed with sour whiskey on the breath and sour women driving home from an evening of regrets. Sleep is the best option and water can't work fast enough. The words of long-dead men fill the few waking hours until the time comes to drop the novels and pretend to be fit to pull wrenches on Monday.

Now they're not so polarized. God is arguably dead, but we understand the intended purpose and find our own replacements. Father figures abound and brothers conjure themselves in the strangest of ways and places. Protein comes in multiple forms, some more appealing than others. Bottles are reserved for the coming of company. Dirty laundry never goes away, but its washing guarantees a break from the race. River Phoenix is now dead in reality as well, but at least we had him for a little awhile. Now, more than ever, the back ends of guns and pens feel like home.

There's good news for most species: The sun has not burned out yet.


Currently reading:
"Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley.

With Benefits

I tried to sneak between her ribs.
Her thighs have done just fine.
I'd love to be the man she calls
when family's on her mind.
I'll never play the song she needs.
It's me or stranger swine.
I'll eat her like an elephant:
One bite at a time.


Currently reading:
"Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley.

Frightening Words From the Lips of Children

"Mommy and Jesus made me this scarf."

Zero to the Left

To rape a sage who lives by signs.
To hope she doesn't notice
the mascara on the pillow.
To speak now of lassitude
seems a trite endeavor.

The Morning Star's aroused
by talking his way into temples.

Had I known what you meant by "never"
I would have acted the same.

Another Crock

"Snowed in," he sighs to the showerhead.

"I should make soup," he says to the soap.

That would've happened three years ago 

but now green sprouts grow from the onions 

hanging in baskets they searched for and bought.

He'll finish and rinse and try to repeat;

trim eyes from the spuds, thaw ancient stock.

None of what stays in her wake is malign.

He knows what ingredients stick to his ribs.

Curently reading:

"American Gun:  A History of the U.S. in Ten Firearms" by Chris Kyle (RIP).

The Sixth Sunday of Nevuary

An echo of laps
reverberates
against the brick of bedroom walls.

Between panicked gasps
she asks
(something irrelevant)
but all he can think
aside from "keep moving"
is that scar tissue itches
and a Pisces can't live alone.

Rubbed Out

How I'll remember my father--
my adult father; the one who listens
when I beg him not to try
to make home repairs without me--
is sitting on the edge of his recliner today
shining his shoes
before my uncle's Christmas party.
His hands worked patiently
as he stared at the television
chiming in with chosen words
when he heard my punctuation.

It took some heavy brushing
and a few layers of polish
to work out the scuffs
and make the leather respectable again
but when he was done
they could have been sold:
An old trick by an old man
who grew up shining shoes
for his namesake.

He still had the knack
and sense of humble wisdom.
He wasn't too proud
to make due or amend.
My three-year-old brother
ran into the room and I thought
I'll have to tell him someday.

A Cenotaph Somewhere

He fucks better in his own bed
downplaying skill for the home team advantage.
He's still searching
for that lady's lost unmentionables
before they turn up
at the worst time possible.
He never brings the bottle
there with him in bed
so the walk to refill glasses
helps him gauge his state.
He's gone to strip clubs sober
for captive conversation.
He has shallow, meaningless sex
with shallow, meaningless people.
He doesn't get to see their eyelids anymore.
He's gifted his seed, though not for the money.
There's a cenotaph for his dignity somewhere
but no one will give him the address.
And if you see him out there
careening through the streets
please remind our vagabond
that addiction is addiction.

The Coriolis Effect

Neil pleas for a gold heart
through the static as I park.
It's possible to want something so badly
that you don't.
The sidewalk feels harder
than last year underfoot.
There's a view of my brick tower
from my path, though I don't notice.

My eyes stick to pedestrians.
Maybe. Hopeful. Christ.
And then, like in my nightmare
Mary Magdalene appears.
Perfection is propelled
by her feet in my direction.
This is how it's meant to be.
Organic. Random. Chance.

Her bangs fall from a hat
that can't disguise her sainthood.
Strength pokes through her face
with stubborn, rigid cheekbones.
The things that I would tell her
over Sunday morning coffee
lighten every step
as we breathe steam in the night.

Like living locomotives
we head for our collision.
I rifle through my lines
like a drunken understudy.
Before I can recite them
she breaks our dear formation
by crossing to her lover
who waits across the street.

There's how it's meant to be
and then
there's how it is
and somewhere in the difference
lurks the humor that we're given
to help with unpulled punches
and moments that we've jinxed
with the notion that a human heart
is anything but shining.


Currently reading:
"This Is How You Lose Her" by Junot Diaz.

Friday the Thirteenth and Other Irrational Fears

Falling in love
at abortion clinics
and battening down
a decade of hatches
is enough to make me wonder
if I could have loved the waitress
whose insides smell like pennies.
Copper is an element
I've come to work already.
She made such perfect dinners
and never kicked me out.

I've given diamonds
and white gold for Christmas
against the urging of women
but I've sworn not to do it again
until I can give all they want:  myself.


Currently reading:
"Letters To a Young Poet" by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Kicking Your Soapbox

Waiting in line
I see a Marine.
Tucked underneath
his left shoelace
a spare dog tag shines.
It ain't there in case
he loses his boots.

I won't tell you
to "love it or leave it,"
and much of what We do
isn't right
but the fact that you
can disagree in public
is due to the men and women
who are willing to adopt
a morbid dressing habit
that will guarantee a name
on the grave that may await
so that you can wave a finger
or a flag that doesn't match.

Kristallnacht

And he knew the wine had worked
by the tiles upside-down
on the dusty Scrabble board
he'd stolen from his father

and he knew he didn't care
when he won and killed the lights;
another vixen smitten
with a man he never was

and the note he left at dawn
had the number for a cab
so she could catch her train
and he could come home tired

to a bed made for a change--
empty, but his own.

And he knew the stench of fate
as it crept into his nose.

Belated Chestpiece Envy

Deathbed graces
shall come as truths clandestine
like how it could have been
if you'd fessed up when you noticed
how her one eye smiles wider
a signal flare, a martyr
crying not about the hurt
but that we cannot show it.

A Splash of Cabernet

He strokes a patch of ceiling
in his mother's empty kitchen
taking note of which spot
at the table is below it:

Her husband's seat.
The brute in buck's clothing.
A wedge driven deep
between blood and family folklore.

With fist raised to mimic
a tossing of the glass
he recreates the action
that left those purple stains.

"This is why I didn't come,"
the son says of Thanksgiving
to a sad and full refrigerator.
His mother saved the food.

There are shames that thrive in alleys.
Death loves fluorescent lighting.
The criminals use banners
to hide their sins in view

but there are some sadder scenes
that one never would expect
like a man without a home
and all his family living.


Currently reading:
"We Are What We Pretend To Be" by Kurt Vonnegut.

Over-the-Counter Remedies for Contagious Genuflection

"Padre Santo, Padre bueno..."
my mother would begin
while pouring medicine
to cure me
or help her sleep better.
She'd end the Spanish prayer
in the name of the Holy Trinity.
Salvation had hints of berries and alcohol.
Not much has changed
though I've ditched the pajamas
and I don't need a chaser
when downing my poison.

The taste of the syrup brings back that scene
as I stand comparing bottles
wondering if there's a difference
in the night and day formulas.
So much of healing occurs in one's head.
I rinse the plastic shot glass
as a cough shredding phlegm
rips through my chest
and transforms into self-aware laughter.

My mother's been right
about many things
but my Savior
will never be one of them.
Am I sick since I'm here
or here because I'm sick?
Whatever that Holy Ghost is
has got a sense of humor.

Better Living Through Chemistry

In a crowded bar last night
I met her.
Cynics have mocked me
said she didn't exist
but I've always known better.
Her tangibility dulls the pang.
I didn't even get to buy her a drink.

Brown strands of hair
that escaped her ponytail's cinching
landed behind her ears.
Every few minutes she'd
swipe her hand across her forehead
to gather any rebellious conspirators
and return them to their cousins.
Somewhere between sips
I imagined having the honor
of doing that for her
on a hungover Sunday morning
with the blinds drawn
as we smiled, close-mouthed
to contain the stench of stomachs.

Then she snapped me out of it.
Asked what I do.
I stammered on about writing and piping.
Left out the part about falling for strangers.
She seemed content with my answer.
So did her husband.

I met him shortly after she told me
the tale of buying a house
here in town.
He seems great.
Undeserving as the rest of us, but great.
Couples like that are rare outside film.
I meant both handshakes.
Even the second.

I wished them both the best
and walked her friend home instead.

It's about a search for
a sweet spot in this killer life
or at least not becoming
an ascetic hermit
who blows out candles
for the smell of it
over and over all night
since he never once surprised them
by leading with the left.

If you want me to talk
about snowflakes landing on eyelashes
I can, but wouldn't mean it.


Currently reading:
"American Short Fiction: Volume 16, Issue 56 (Fall 2013)".

Que Lastima, Amigos

Ridley didn't see himself having much need for his canteen any longer. He tossed it five feet from where he was sprawled out, his back against a stone outcropping, and watched the dirt around the water jug dance. It was as he'd expected: his pursuers weren't taking any chances and compensated for their lack of skill with volume. A cloud of dust rose from the site of his experiment with lead replacing soil in a violent display of physics. Then a stray bullet crashed through the tip of his right boot, taking two toes in the process. He wouldn't need those again either.

From beyond the confines of his rock he heard the frantic directives of the low-ranking officer trying to earn a few stripes with his scalp. His orders, if executed and successful, could amount to a promotion. Little Generalisimo would switch to private school. Ridley had no problem with the way the world trades energy, though he wouldn't make it easy to sacrifice his own. He opened the loading gate of his Colt revolver, swapped out spent shells for fresh ones pushed from his belt, and spun the cylinder with a swipe of his left hand. The last move served no purpose other than compliance with habit. The Mexicans would receive him in his entirety, superstitions and idiosyncrasies included.

A spurt of blood sprayed from his hemorrhaging foot, drawing his attention back to the tactical specifics. He saw a brown mess of leather and flesh in the sand and wondered if they'd take the time to bury him completely, or at all.

"Come out, Comandante," the sergeant taunted in his best pidgin English, the sarcasm implied not lost on its target . "It doesn't have to end this way," he lied without a tremble.

The blood finally clotted in Ridley's mangled foot. The throbbing stopped and the adrenaline in his veins evened out to be of use. As the sergeant made silent hand motions that were meaningless to his poorly trained subordinates, Ridley leveled the blind barrels of his shotgun against the baking desert floor and squeezed both triggers in tandem with the hopes of one last Ace. Another barrage of gunfire chipped bits from the boulder, but this time there weren't statements from the sergeant's thirsty throat. A man so bent on glory would have stood in front, invincible. Ridley knew the type well; he'd beaten him before. Little Generalisimo would now be half an orphan.

The familiar echo of government issued rifles raced away toward the horizon. Things like sunsets did more than inspire a pensive smoke after supper--they could save a man's life, since darkness eases escape. Unfortunately it wasn't yet noon where this standoff was transpiring. Tokens had been thrown across the table and landed on one side. That lucky shot which folded the sergeant was the last favor granted by a god who thrives on numbers.

A corporal rose to fill the boots and split the squads for flanking. Ridley couldn't clone himself. It would come down to which side would first succumb. When seconds are precious and breaths on earth are numbered choices like this one would have to suffice. No more hollow offers came from his relentless assassins; only cocking hammers and footsteps crunching pebbles.

His shotgun was now useless since he'd emptied both its chambers. His clenched Colt felt like a crucifix forged in carbon steel. It had been there for some blessings and would now bestow last rites. He growled a quaint obscenity in his version of their tongue, though it wasn't necessarily meant to curse these strangers.

He'd made them chase him this long. He'd rationed out his ammo. There were no delusions of cavalry thundering over the ridge.

Ridley trained his pistol on a buzzard that was circling. Mexican conscripts cared not for shovels. Death was one thing; being spread across the desert by a scavenger of carrion was another. The .45 rang out twice, felling the vulture and stopping the advancing Federales in their vengeful tracks. By the time the last feather floated to the ground to join its humbled source the soldiers had circumnavigated each half of the stone. Had they not been distracted by dispensing hot brass from their borrowed hardware maybe one would have noticed the freshly carved inscription: "Here lies..."

They left him with his Peacemaker, but divvied up his rounds.

Trifecta Dentata

Somewhere between the sambuca and Chardonnay
we established where she'd be staying: in me.
The exposed brick strikes again
and an alley kitten's killed
for resting in an engine.

If you don't read poetry
with a shotgun on the coffee table
then you don't read poetry correctly.
If you're not writing lines
like there's one aimed at your head
then you're wasting your time and mine.
Saint Dave of the Wilderness would never understand.

So life, or what's left of it, is reduced
to an absence of the shepherd
in search of billable hours
to cram into the day.

"How do you sleep at night?"
his detractors ask in unison.
"I put my head down on the pillow
and close my eyes," he says.

Now let me help you down
off that cross.

Show Review Written On an Obsolete Cell Phone

The drummer was faking the pain on his face. That denim jacket wasn't worn enough to have lived, but he closed his eyes as convincingly as the next rhythmic cat while massaging his cymbals.

The guitarist needed shoes and a friend to tell him that ponytails aren't alright, even for jazz artists. His gear was solid and deliberate. I have a pair of boxers in the same gray and black print as his flannel shirt. The rest I could do without.

Sometime between blurred songlines a half-way to Florida businessman asked if he could sit at my booth. Not having a valid argument in opposition I made the universal face of indifference, sans shrug. That sentiment soon changed. He began smiling with too much tooth for no reason toward the stage. His head rocked so hard that the stubble of his salty goatee began to shake loose. And then the laughing commenced. Maniacal. Senseless. Caught up in a moment that I knew wasn't there, like a Born Again Christian speaking in tongues. It's no wonder this man would leave alone after the gig. A fraud in a herringbone blazer blowing inaudible whistles of approval through cracked lips. When he took the microphone between sets to play MC I wasn't surprised, especially by his quip about "working the box" when it came time to beg for donations.

"I don't know. I guess I'm getting old," I told the kid across from me.

"I'd prefer that to constantly embarrassing myself."

The kid had a point.

But the jazzmaster stole the show--switching between brass and woodwinds, equally war-torn, in three layers of collared shirt; pockmarked and fragile, thrusting his thin hips at the mic stand during a bold improvisation that made my stubborn head spin on the inside. Years of humble penance at his muse's bloody altar showed as scars through the tight curls on his damp tobacco face; raging against pain with the jowls of a black Bukowski, his watchman's cap unquestionable, his jeans worn at the knees. If you saw him on the subway you'd swear he'd never left it. This is why I came here. This man had truly lived it, unlike his choice of  cohorts. It's too bad there's no whiskey. We'd share our fun renditions of making our own blues.

A Flicking of the Switch

I won't mask this in a faded gray font. There shall be no need for dictionaries. I am me and you are you; the cowardly use of pronouns--he, she, they--was done away with when the boxing gloves came off after coffee #3. If I want to address Angela or Stephanie or Joy I will do so. It doesn't matter. Their last names are different now anyway, and rightfully. But Mike Vahsen? (Do you hear that, Mr. Editor? It's Mike, not Michael.) He's been the same since seventeen, at least when it comes to the core and its termites; still searching, still stinging--both getting and giving.

The sentence has been excessive. It's going on two-and-a-half years now in solitary confinement. If a court had been involved I'd argue the Eighth Amendment, but in this case it's merely karma and fate. I come home to an empty apartment on Main after working alone with the boys from the hall. A crew of fifteen, all with their partners, except the odd man who sees his way out. I joke with the steward, mentioning the necessity for a dog, though a shameless accomplice is all that I want: a brilliant belle with a laugh that's infectious for whom I can bring sincere bread to the table. 

Instead there are stand-ins, holders of places; women who throw the predictable pitch. One makes the perfect Bloody Mary, multiple variables be damned. Another has the ultimate lust handles. Way up north there's a reflection of my mind who may be too much like me for her own good. There's always an artist, some self-loathing muse--the beautiful trainwreck the knight longs to tame. These archetypes continue. Don't feel so left out; likewise, I mean not to lessen your worth. I suspect the desire to fall in love with the writer. They'd settle for the steady steamfitter, get stuck with the part-time plumber. For that I pity them. Life's so unkind. I know all of their lines before they can say them, with their eyes or otherwise. I've read too much Hemingway. The dialogue's predetermined. These poor souls don't see the script that they're reading, or maybe they do and stare through the act. 

The coffee's yielded to its cousin. A waxpaper cup filled with water collects the remnants of one vice, though maybe it's time to invest in an ashtray. Kristen would kill me for smoking inside. Kristen would kill me for smoking in general. And to set the record straight, Kristen never killed me. It's the blur of the sidewalk and the weight of my Levis that make it seem wiser to put a box fan in the window and suck out the stench of a man's last cancerous refuge. I lied again: look up "hiraeth".

The solution sounds simple. Keep my head down and work. Be a productive member of society. Install the pipes required to heat and cool, clean and nourish, move some fluid from Point A to Point B. But I've seen what complacency does to a man, the soul's slow erosion that drains one of talent and dreams. I know great tradesmen who've honed their craft exclusively, giving up on passions that once pulled their veins. Look into the eyes of a colleague on coffee break. Find the sacrifice, expose the dull ache. I fear becoming that man who's got nothing but pension credits and consolidated debt to show for the decades. Most are divorced, some went to rehab. Half have some kid whom they see once a week. The dream is a tease. We punch cards for nothing. Then, once we've realized, it's time to pick plots. Bury my heart at Wounded Knee. Leave the rest for the coyotes.

But it's not what you think. There's no cry for empathy. You may keep your shoulder. I've got two of my own. Those blessed with this affliction don't do it to see their names in print. It's not about the glory, nor the mercy, nor the sex. We type to suck the poison like the fan propped in my window. Maybe someone gets it. From this stage I see no lighters; some yawning, a few cocked arms, and a more-than-met two-drink minimum. 

Your ears I'm now returning. My feet are all I need. Tomorrow my alarm clock will silence the madness of dreaming. (She lays her head down nightly somewhere safely far from me.)

I wonder how much less we'd respect our favorite mentors if they didn't show discretion that we amateurs ignore. My defense reverts to childhood: that monster in the dark disappeared with bulbs electrified.

The Stubbornness of Sprinters

He's burning to tell me
but his words can't leave fast enough.
It's something I share
with my three-year-old kinsman.
"I got hurt, Michael.
I was running and fell."
Even through the miles
I can hear his fettered thinking
and wince at lines of anguish
forming on his brow.
"I scraped my knee and my chin."
He's rubbing at least one of them.

Our father reclaims the telephone
to clarify the message.
"The girls track team was running laps
around the lake where we were fishing.
He took off after them with his little legs
and somehow got to the head of the pack.
It was amazing," the proud parent beams audibly.

But Newton and Murphy caught up with the kid.
His triumph was short-lived.
Those ladies were going for distance; not speed.
They're smarter than that.
It's science.

He'll learn this again when the stakes matter more.
He'll find his own limits; be his own man.
Even big brothers can't cushion those blows

though damned I shall be if I don't try regardless.


Currently reading:
"The Bear Went Over the Mountain" by Lester Grau.

Blackguard Buzz Aldrin

For all I know
the world ain't shaped the way they draw it.
The continents could be nothing
like the maps would have us think.

I've never been to space
to look down at the shorelines.
Orbit's not for laymen.
Even Jersey scares me.

If a liar held the lens
then we'd never know the difference;
billions of people
duped by floating monkeys.

The moonwalk was a hoax.
Hollywood was hired
for the biggest Cold War fraud
and a false idea of home.

Junkies and the Settin' Sun

I'd like to talk to you about addiction.

Scratch that.

I'd like to talk to you about "Greg".
We'll call him "Greg" since that's his name.
Greg is a twenty-five-year-old boilermaker.

Scratch that as well.

Greg is a sad demographic.
Greg is a statistic.
Greg is a heroin addict.
Notice there's no "recovering".
Not even a hopeful heroine could change that.

My mother falls into that category sometimes;
the Good Samaritan, I mean.
She's a social worker at a Rehab Center in Newburgh.
Greg was a patient there.
He had soupy brown eyes and rough hands.
(They still are.)
His mouth sometimes outwitted his heart.
(It still does.)
He meant well, but got in his own way.
(The story doesn't change, regardless of the name.)
Greg reminded my mother of me.
(I'm not sure how to feel about that.)

The union might have sent him on vacation.
Maybe he went by his own volition.
It doesn't matter.
Greg is a heroin addict.
That's all you need to know.

My mother saw that he wanted help.
He played by the rules.
Went to the meetings.
Slept under the required roof.
Completed some trivial Steps.
Greg even managed to graduate.
I think that's what they call it.
But Recovery is a continuing Step.
Greg didn't stick with that one.

They shipped him to a half-way house in the ghetto.
My mother bought him a bike, fixed it up.
Greg couldn't drive anymore.
The needle sews things closed.

She asked me to make some phone calls.
I did.
She's my mother.
I'd do far more than that if she asked.
Greg sounded nice enough.
Said he could weld.
Wanted to work.
Didn't have tools, but was eager.
Ready, willing, and able.
I made some more phone calls.
Greg said he'd go on the interview.
I told him to drop my name.
I didn't care.
It was for my mother.
Greg could do as he pleased with my reputation.
Lord knows I have.
It was his life.
Well, it used to be.
Greg is a heroin addict.
That contractor never heard from him.

The summer bled out on the sizzling asphalt.
Another graduate ran into Greg on a side street.
He looked like a broomstick wearing clothes.
His eyes had receded into his skull.
The soup was gone.
The hands were still rough, but shaking.
His legs were weary from walking around town.
Greg had sold the bike within a week.
Greg is a...
You get the idea.

My mother's voice was strained when she told me.
She's sick of seeing the Cycle repeat.
It was hard to hear what she had to say.
Greg had been picked up by the cops again.
He was with some unsavory characters, selling.
There was a hefty load of dope.
The bail had been set at twenty-five grand.
That's no petty possession.
Greg won't be making boilers for awhile.

But the other side of the story is what hits me:
If my mother had the money, Greg would still be hunting.
And I haven't deleted his number.

The Single Life, Deglorified

It's not that he's bothered
by her body broken by childbirth
but that he didn't get
to stretch that skin.

In all relations
where "I'll give you X
if you give me Y,"
X and/or Y are always
currency, love
or their conglomerate:
lust.

On any given Thursday
you could dig through his wallet
and find the contents
of at least three fortune cookies.
He's collected them, unofficially
since the age of eighteen.
Our fates are scribbled in pidgin English
and rest on a shelf
collecting dust and threats of dead men.

In direct defiance of the Surgeon General's warning
he's renouncing the curse of the Human Condition.
"In what war has that officer earned his stars?" he asks.

The standing answer follows.
A cricket tunes its legs.

Fluid Ounces

I've worn the same cologne since the irreparable brilliance of age fourteen. My mother bought it for me at the mall in preparation for my junior high debut; Polo Sport, the crisp fragrance of budding manhood throughout the privileged world. It came with a gym bag which I used to carry my cleats to football practice. That's still in my mother's shed somewhere. The scent lasted. The jock dreams didn't. There's not a single cell inside me that's not at peace with that.

Then, the better part of a decade later, she chimed in with a second olfactory gift. This one didn't stick. It came at the time of my first apartment, a foray into debauchery that led to years of karmic justice. The smell of Curve changed overnight, somehow smoothed into a buttery musk that quickly gained a shameful association with hangovers and awkward Good Mornings. It didn't last long in the repertoire. The man who still has notes from high school in a closeted shoebox didn't keep that overpriced bottle of regret. I hope it's bringing someone else better luck.

That was a far cry from the innocence of young boyhood when my anxious father walked into the bathroom with a gift for his six-year-old son. The packaged set of Jovan products slipped from his hands and the bottle broke against the tile floor. I was left with a stick of deodorant which I didn't need yet. That episode managed to sum up much of my old man's aspirations: a heart in the right place, hampered by his own overzealous fumbling. One should be grateful to have experienced half of that equation. I don't deny that. He's a better man than me in most ways.

Last winter I briefly dated one of a slew of Italian single mothers who wound up being slightly more predictable than the rest. When Christmas came I already knew that I'd be receiving a bottle of men's aftershave. It felt more apropos than clairvoyant. I wasn't her ex-husband, nor had I spent seventeen years clinging to the shirttails of her life, but I knew she'd want to somehow change me when the opportunity arose through the ritualistic giving of gifts. Refusal meant upheaval. It came as a clandestine blessing and I haven't heard from her since. I wonder if she hocked that necklace. New rule: No more jewelry prior to six months.

But the last one is what matters. It seemed a normal compliment when Jackie said that she liked the way I smelled. Ralph Lauren has narrated the tale of many a half-hearted endeavor. I probably reciprocated similarly. Pheromones contribute to cases of mistaken identity before reason has its say. She fed me and skipped through the channels as we played the parts on her couch. When my bladder prodded to be drained I excused myself to the bathroom. Her medicine cabinet contained no prescription pill bottles--always a positive sign. I could say that I was searching for some Advil or a Q-Tip, but I was not. Hemingway warned, "You never understand anybody that loves you," while a dying protagonist, thinly veiled as someone other than himself, bled out on his ship. Even less can be said of those whom are only liked. You drink the cork with the wine. You endure some mild violation with the expectation that you too are being entered into search engines on the internet. Consider yourself flattered. There are people in the world whom no one cares to know, but they're not in this formula.

There was, however, a familiar blue bottle of Polo Sport on the middle shelf of the hidden realm behind Jackie's bathroom mirror. Why did a woman have men's cologne among her toiletries? I picked it up and rolled it in my hand. On the side opposite the printed logo was a primitive, hand-etched stencil of a name: Andrew. I didn't, and still don't, know her handwriting well enough to determine if it was her scrawl, but I assumed it to be so. An image of the pencil drawing of a young man's face on her night stand, rosary beads draped over its frame, rose to the forefront of my mind:  Andrew, her high school boyfriend who'd been killed by a drunk driver. The essence in common with this deceased kid was a token of the loss of innocence for our shared paramour. I placed the bottle where I'd found it, closed the cabinet, and saw a scoundrel staring back at me. There would be no prayers or grieving when I left. I was unworthy of art. I never even offered to do the dishes after dinner or help change the sheets.

"You smell nice," meant more than I'd earned. I haven't returned her calls. Somewhere, soaking raindrops, there's a spirit more deserving.

Faulkner Drawing Knives

Best friend's box truck climbs his gravel driveway.
Offers me a road soda hopping down to Friday.
"There's rum already in it."
Decline and shake his hand.

Yard sale guitar on the porch needs tuning.
Strum a G Major until it sounds right.
"Have any gum?" his eldest kid asks.
He knows the answer coming from a rusty cowboy.

"Stay for Chinese," declining again.
"Good luck on your date," the chewing boy says.
"Learn to play that and you won't need it."
Headlights scan the highway.


Currently reading:
"Book of Sketches" by Jack Kerouac.

Stairwell Scrimmage

There's something disconcerting
about seeing someone in a football uniform
and shoulder pads grumble, but I too
was once a nine-year-old.
The neighbor kid's groaning
over being sent back downstairs
by his overweight mother
for the rest of the laundry
waiting in the back of their sedan
parked at the curb.

My smoke's half alive
but I toss it anyway.
"Need a hand with that?"
I ask, reaching out before
he has time to answer.
I know how this goes.
"Sure," he replies
handing me the balled-up blanket
that seemed to be defeating him previously.

Two friendly barflies
guarding the sidewalk real estate
in front of Joe's Irish
cheer from their battle stations.
I suppose it looks ridiculous
especially since I'm still
shoulders-to-shins in denim
slathered with grease from
a day of work next to a man
I wouldn't want in my foxhole.
But it pays, and this kid's laundry
is the lightest thing I've lifted all week.

#42's kneepads are spotless, along with
the rest of him. He's either very good
or very bad. I stubbornly give him
the benefit of the doubt.

"What position do you play?"
I ask as we trudge up the stairs
both tired for different reasons.
"The Line," he confesses.
"I played the Line," I tell him.
"It's boring. All you do
is hit the guy across from you
over and over again."

He takes his bundle back
when we reach the door to his apartment.
I can't remember if he thanked me
not that it matters.
My mind was back on my own Line
wishing I could have a second chance
to unleash my angst
on a faceless, mouth-breathing stranger
for an hour at a clip.

I think I'd be efficient now.
The reasons have amalgamated.


Currently reading:
"The Hidden War" by Artyom Borovik.

Since You MotherFUCKers Think You Know Mike

I am not a good man, but sometimes I try to be--
or maybe I feign trying.
It's just as rewarding without all the sacrifice.
There's been a battle since I was seventeen
and discovered that in
[edited since she may read this
though I doubt it].
Still, always there is hope.
We'll get to that later.

I appear selfish to those safely removed;
selfless to those comfortable enough to pretend;
and once again selfish to the stubborn who dig diligently.
All of this is trivial.
The few who are any better
would never see this accusation.
Consider yourself judged.
When's the last time you asked yourself,
"Who would bail me out at 3 a.m.?"
I didn't think so.

Some more on negativity:
You wouldn't know it if it fucked you in the ass--
hard, and without lubrication.
So often I'm mistaken
for this woe-is-me hermit
who loves to stroke his misery
instead of making change.
That is not the case.
I'm working, if only in theory.
But part of that
meant cutting out the cancer
which is why most of you
wouldn't notice any progress.
You're too busy chasing handjobs--
social, emotional, financial, literal.
Your lack of depth is alarming.
Your existence is proof
that they should tax air.
The better part of your genetics
must've slid down the crack
of your mother's ass.
Justice will not be served
unless somehow one day
you accidentally consume
toast buttered with horse smegma.
Am I done yet?
Do I need to go on?
Are you offended to the point
of ending this charade of friendship?

I don't know if I'm a realist or a romantic
but if there's a common thread
it's hope.
And to hope implies that things aren't right.
(If you disagree there
then I want what you're taking.)
To acknowledge the presence of clouds
is to amplify the rays of the sun
when they're there.
If everyone tooled around
as delusively happy as you do
then the pharmaceutical industry
would cease to exist
and America would implode.
Is that what you want?
Where's your sense of patriotism?
Can we sit and rotate
on the marble cocks of our Founding Fathers?
"Yes we can."

Try making sense again
when you're not the latchkey kid
of that Dream with altered locks.
There's an extra layer of vanity involved
when you take her in your T-shirt
the next morning, though you'd never admit that.
There's no revenge for tasting sloppy seconds.
You do it to the next.

Forgive this menage-a-moi.
I needed it.
It meant nothing, I swear.
A friend went for the jugular.
Maybe she was right.
There's a first time for everything.

You never hear the bullet that kills you.


Currently reading:
"To Love and Be Loved" by Sam Keen.

Leave the Ivory in the Field

There are lions here
worth shooting.
What they live in's
called a pride.
Watch them bleed out
on the prairie
down the block
from where we met.

Chug that second cup of coffee.
Polish nickel-plated steel.
Mercy always has a limit.
It ends where self begins.

On that bench there is a bounty.
Those thighs contain a lie.
The mailman carries secrets.
Extortion pays the bills.

There are loveless
forms of chocolate.
Probation's not parole.
This lion rifle's rusty
but the cartridges don't notice.


Currently reading:
"Good Prose" by Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd.

Like ***** Mixed With *** and Hints of Fresh-Picked ****

While they drain for the week

I lay and read a letter

I wrote myself four years ago

which ends with a claim I made 

for the sake of someone else

--three of them, if I'm honest--

when those rules still applied:

"I forget what she smells like,"

the line lies like rubber.

"Guess that means it's finally over."

Pausing, staring off

into the brick wall of my bedroom

but not cheating with closed eyelids

I breathe deep enough

to suck ten years into my nostrils

picturing the red shirt she kept at my dorm.

I remember the fragrance

but won't share it with you here

nor ever.

"That was close,"

I tell myself

glad, yet again, at only being

half right.

Even a jealous God

leaves a reason to keep trying.

Unlabeled Hades

Strange sex dreams
that you don't want to wake from.
(That Italian gal
with the puddle she loves.)
We want what we want
regardless of reason.
The district attorney's still scratching her head.

None of what follows
applies to the willing:
the denizens dandy
the scurvy that's shared.
Half this town
could drown in its ego.
Tell them your secrets.
They're still not your friends.

Tonic sans gin is alright if there's lime.
It's easy to sleep with a lock of her hair.
Be sure to appease the man in the boat.
A tough one to swallow:
Ares was queer.

How I'll Think of Hell's Kitchen

Reading back through gravity
even a mere two years
sends vapors through the cracks
under my doors.
In the time-warping fog
I see words I no longer know
and people I no longer know
and shudder with a cocktail
of emotions I'd rather not mix:
guilt of mind and heart eroded.

My heavy use of pronouns
for the safety of anonymity
makes my own rambling cryptic
but with a healthy dose
of forensic archaeology
the characters come back to life
rising from the paper.

And one in particular
I'd thought was a dream
rears her head
through vivid words
I assigned her
like pearls
to prove to me now
here in my attic
that I once knew love
and can do so again.


Currently reading:
"Islands in the Stream" by Ernest Hemingway.

For Once Just As It Happened

The old man got rice pudding
and I had chocolate mousse cake.
There we sat
each across from a stranger
comfortable enough
to savor our sweet vices
while making the right eye contact
to claim the same cursed blood.

"This diner's only good for dessert,"
I inform him
as he steals half the dollop
of whipped cream on my plate
like he has since the days
of divorced kid visitation.
He smiles with the knowledge
that his eldest won't piss rainbows.
I've learned to gauge his love
by the things he doesn't say.

We wolf down three days' calories
allowing beasts to sleep.
He left a lousy tip
but I didn't spring to change that.

My father will be missed someday.
I'll tell the boy a fable.
I don't want his inheritance;
only my whipped cream.

In Servile Defence of the Crown

Some Saturday night incorrigibles
ripped the flowers
from that sidewalk pot
for the eleventh time
since living here.
Still his careful hand
plucks the remnants of the roots
while the other holds a cigarette
he'd rather not be smoking.

We're drowning in the rays
of spoiled weekend sunlight
too bright for our four eyes
unwillingly enlightened.
It's partially the color
though mostly due to shape.
David's humble slingshot
tends to find its mark.

Glancing around the corner
reveals the doomed replacements:
another floral cluster
that will only grace the pavement.
He's flicked his burning butt
at a poorly parked convertible.
He pays no attention
to the dirt under his nails.

There isn't much advice here
like fathers who teach nothing
save for stinking sardine Sundays
and how to lose a wife.

What a great man
for someone else.

What a perfect afternoon
for execution.

What's left but the madness
that these silent strangers share?

A Happy One To Choke You

I think that when you die
it goes back to being Nothing
like the blackness that prevailed
before you had a number.

But if there is a Heaven
and if I get to see it
I hope that it's a play list
of my all-time favorite memories.

The film will be repeated
but feel new every time.
The characters will love me
if only for those frames.
The soundtrack will be laughter
that some of you don't hear.

I'm far from misanthropic.
My Heaven Reel is proof.

The Iconoclast

My friend hunts
with a rifle.
You won't see him often
out there on the prowl
though when you do
it's good, my man:
Distance shots I'd pass on;
Only the best trophies;
Never a maimed doe
bleeding out for miles.

But me?
I sling my shotgun
and head to the cafe.
There's not room enough
for dancing so the patrons
watch me read
and with all those little BBs
something's bound to hit.

This fall brunette's in season.
Watch the redheads graze.
And if, by chance, you meet a blonde
save it, dead-eye.
Spare her.

Pining, for a Second

One of the kindest things
ever done for me
was when a love that could've been
moved states and states away.
Not across the county.
Not to Jersey.
States and states.

Never will I see her
in the shampoo aisle
or a traffic light positioned
so the sun gets in our eyes.

A life without temptation.
An ideal.

Maybe once in awhile
I'll spot a tattoo
almost as good as hers
and think, "That's almost
as good as hers."
I can handle that.
The truth.

Some grace us with their coming.
Others with their going.
And the most precious few
the ones who deserve better
than the broken gifts we'd give
grant the sacred blessing
of never coming
and going.

Amen.

Designated Hitter

Sun fades on the brick
of his crumbling bedroom walls
while recapping the
sins of the day:
His hand hurts now
from cat scratches
remnants of a game
he played with her new kitten
similar to the toying
that rounded out the visit.

A few new books, unread
sat atop her dresser.
"You need to be
with someone like you,"
she declared, making excuses
on his behalf--
as if to say that's easy;
as if they're lining up.
Then she pulled off her shorts again.
(This hurt worse
than the claws.)

There it was, engulfing him:
that pink butterfly
which almost kept him happy.

Her mother called
mid-stroke
so she reached to mute
the phone.
Some sick part of him
hoped that she would answer
pretending not to pant
as her back was blown out.

It ended, as always
with seed spilled
snubbing God.

Denim climbed his legs
and he lit up on her porch.
"I haven't smoked all month,"
she said.
"The last time that we met."

He wonders if she'll blame him
when the cancer fills her lungs.

"Am I the only one?"
she asked.
He smiled, sucked down fire.

The only one today, poor girl.
The week is still so young.

from a dream in which she shot me

teams of vivid red
challenged squads of purple
in lazy games of kickball
where no one ever lost.

(you are not a sunset.
you're a kid pissing in snow.)

they say
at any given time
there are six people
in the world
who look exactly the same.

don't wake us.

Mal de Mer: The Stalemate

The stubborn imperfection
of her bottom teeth
almost makes me dial
though I know it isn't right.

They remind me of my own.

Our sheet music was in sync.
That second-seat violinist
and the rest of his orchestra
beyond the bedroom door
were what shortened our reprise.

Or maybe Pavlov's dogs
were just always hungry.

Relative Delusion

Fear not the fascist despot
or his cousin, Commie Czar;
it won't be any monarch
who rules the melded masses
there among the roaches
once the end of days is nigh.
A superhero slouching
won't come close in his powers.
Death, nor even Taxes
can touch What Men Should Dread:

The woman drenched in diamonds
cast upon her by the pens
of a dozen wayward poets
who wasted their best words
on a princess proud of nothing
that a queen would never sell--
a lady made immortal
who'll serve the drinks in Hell.

The Necessary Shakespeare

You have to see her
in the right light
to find it
have her up to your place
for a beer
and alibi speeches
but once you do
it's burned in your skull
irreparable:

that perfect angle
from which she looks more
like an actress
from 19-hundred and 43
than another
shark born swimming
who'll spit you out
over cocktail stories
with friends down at Max's
an exercise in the perverse
at a cost you'll never muster.

Miles from Mercy and Nicotine

His name is John
but I call him Lurch
behind his back;
mid-forties, vagrant, gentle
and soft-spoken.
He's got to be six-three
a ragged, over-sized T-shirt
always hanging
from that frame that carries flesh.
There's a bald knot
which may or may not
be a tumor
protruding from his close-cropped hair
which was definitely cut
with a dull shard of steel
by a friend doused in drink
or a barber with no conscience.
His face looks as though
he had some great idea decades ago
as lightning struck his spine
freezing his nerves in place forever.
And I like him, mostly;
especially after that
second-to-last time
when he saw I had one smoke left
and volunteered to take the empty pack
throwing it out in his travels.
A man who knows the value of a favor
should never go unappreciated.

John crosses the macadam
whenever there's a smoker
from whom to bum
on the opposite sidewalk.
I'm aware of this
as I know which dogs not to pet
on Main Street
(the ones that are on fire).
Tonight I went down
for my after-dinner cancer
commando style
with one Marlboro, a lighter
and my book of Chinese poetry.
No sharing of my pack
with the proletariat this eve.
There's a layoff coming.
Mine must be for me.

I suck the last drag
from my menthol
before tossing it into the street.
I'm half-way through a stanza
when he approaches
from the adjacent corner.
"Can you spare a..."
but I cut him off before he can finish.
"I don't have any, John," I say
pointing to my sparse items
on the stoop next to me
proud to be prepared
basking in my shamelessness
suddenly less compassionate
than I ever thought I'd be.

He turns, defeated, and picks up
my butt from the pavement
pulling hard with his lungs
on the burning cotton filter
and taking his time
to cross the double-yellow.
A truck swerves around him
this man with my saliva
and it just may be
the closest I've come
to kissing a true human.

Jesus, I curse myself.
I should've gone upstairs for one.

"Thanks," he said
when I gave him my last smoke
that other time.
"Some people get all bent out of shape."

Love Poem For a Woman I've Been Warned Does Not Exist

You're my favorite frying pan for eggs.
You're the way I always know how far it'll shoot.

You're that cocktail, made just right
where the last dram fills the glass.
You're the wax I'll never scrape
from the surface of my table.
You're the rifle on my wall
to which my guests' eyes all adhere.

You're the half-bottle of tonic
I'll drink when nothing's left.
You're the feather on the pond
that floats farther away
the harder I writhe
to catch you for my cap.

("So he knows,"
they point and say.
"He knows, and does it anyway.")

I have an ancestor
whose dying wish was honored
to not be buried next to
her long-dead, horrid husband.
The priest spoke of forgiveness
while our family counted miles.

Maybe never meeting
will nurture best our love.

'Should' Is a Funny Word That Way

Then she reminded
me that you get
more flies with honey
than you do with shit.

I told her her
I wasn't looking
for flies
and went on about

her business.

The Gunless Summer

And it's funny
like the time
you forgot
long division
or how the homeless curse you
for giving food instead of money.

The secret
according to my Tao
is to realize and accept
that at any given time
you are just as alone
as at any other time given--
regardless of the presence
of humanoid holograms.

Only then will your coffee taste better.
Only then will your cigarettes not kill.

Good morning and good morning
and good morning.
It's great to be "with" you today.


Currently reading:
"Bright Moon, White Clouds:  Selected Poems of Li Po", edited and translated by J.P. Seaton.

Nocturnal Journalism

Who hasn't seen pricked blood
and wondered
Could that really be clean?

What do normal folks think about
when they drive over bridges?

Where are the rest
of the lucky ones hiding?

Why were my grandmother's
last few breaths
more like the gasps
of a fish with dry gills?

When will that Thomas
remember to doubt?

How short is a life
without reason?

These are the questions
the bricks fail to answer.
Carve it for now.
The Rapture is coming.

Dysuria

There must be
a short word in Chinese
for the type of base life
he's been leading of late.

Thankfully, though
nude pity's in vogue.
Hell's cartographer
fakes his complaints.

The Mark of the Beast:
Repeater's Disease.
The Knights of Columbus
fought in no wars.

A hand from on high
unzips, bares her thighs
when God thwarts the hunter
by closing a door.

Explanation for Those Unafflicted

It's not a hot shard of steel
inhaled through the nose
sliding down the throat
and ending in the gut--
a spark that scalds
bright and pink and instant.

It's that bee stuck between
the windowpane and screen
and why helping it escape
is required-- damn the risk
if sleep is on the agenda.


Currently reading:
"House of Leaves" by Mark. Z. Danielewski.

Love Stumps

Vinny van Gogh
had victims, too.
Picasso used red.
He wasn't all blue.
Dali fulfilled
his prophets, like me.
They'd all break brushes
if asked to paint you.

Amsterdam

He walks on the shady side
of the street; not because
it's darker, but because
he'll sweat less.

He types his fears into a box
and acts surprised when they
meet him on the sidewalk.

He laughs when others cringe.
The opposite is true.

Once he tried to off himself
and sees now his success.

You can eat every day
and still starve to death.
You can conjure a life
and recite it.
You can have gin for dinner
and tell them at coffee
about pretty voids
you've been filling.

It Doesn't Take Bobby Fischer

For eight dollars, plus tax, I could've been fossilized in a moment ripped from the pages of a long-gone literary hero's hopeful anecdotes. Instead I'm still shaking twenty-three minutes later, but not from nerves-- it's remorse at having been frozen during an opportunity granted by a Power who likes to push pawns off the edge of the board.

I stopped at a convenience store I rarely patronize for a pack of smokes that I didn't need. It was more of a means to break a hundred and avoid a scene at the deli the next morning when the cashier would look at me squarely and say she couldn't make change. Some men learn to be prepared for these catastrophes. Others continue to suffer the same fate. Most never realize they're happening and lead empty lives punctuated by meaningless deaths. I'm lingering somewhere in that equation, though it's not for me to specify. Recordists, you see, are limited to the facts. Allow me to relay them as purely as possible.

I recognized her voice first: that sassy snarl which used to grate my nerves late at night during drunken disputes over nothing. All of me stood still except for my eyes which scanned her presence for the familiar. The tattoo on her foot and a stud in the side of her nose which I could barely see confirmed the uncanny. I was standing behind one of the Great Ones, perhaps the woman who suited me most-- or would have, had I been ready.

Her hair was longer than I'd ever seen it. A flowery dress clung to her figure and was cut short at the knee where two legs protruded gracefully, milky and filled-out like a mother's-- since she is one now, God bless her.

"Declined?" she asked the clerk, equal parts confused and annoyed. The dark-skinned Arab man behind the counter looked my way as she rifled through her purse for another card to swipe. "Sorry," she said over her shoulder with half a glance in my direction. I wasn't sure if she didn't recognize me or was sticking to a strict regimen of damage control, but she said nothing to acknowledge that we'd been together for years back when things were simpler. My feet, sockless in old sneakers, wouldn't budge from the cheap tile floors. I felt new beads of sweat run from my neck down to my shoulders which were bare. A rare fashion sin in the form of a muggy-day Guinea tee and the uncombed, windblown poof adorning my head made me wonder if she mistook me for one of the local rough-and-tumble barrio boys. Part of me prayed it was so. I couldn't be crystallized like this. I'd left my smoking jacket and ascot at home.

Four tall boys of beer dripped condensation on the counter in front of her-- two imported, two domestic-- though the price tags all read the same: $1.99. I thumbed through my wallet and produced a twenty that'd cover both of our purchases, but no words came to my lips. "I've got that," or "Allow me," or "It's the least I can do for all those nights when I should've stopped playing the part so damn well." Any of these would've made up for eight years of slamming back gin and regret. Instead my tail spun as I yanked at the yoke, silent as church on Monday, but churning inside.

My moment passed. I'd missed it forever. The pawn rolled in a wasteful arc there on the cosmic table.

"Here, try this one," she said as she handed the cashier a different card. He rang her up, bagged the beer, and she left before I could congratulate her on doing what I still can't.

One of these days I'll admit that.

Reverse Birth

She plucked a pansy
from the window
spitting it out
when she tasted
the sidewalk smoke.

"You can eat them.
They're supposed
to be sweet
but these aren't."

Two bottles of white
a bookshelf inspection
and an eighty-point win
in Scrabble
is all it takes
to make two strangers
into fornicators.

"A little further.
Hold it there,"
she gasps, scratching brick.

The sun decides to rise
three hours later.

It's bad when you can't
say her last name
although she's naked
beside you.

"Will you walk me
to your door?"
she asks
shooting low.

Twist the locks.
Change the sheets.
Turn off the ringer
and go back to sleep

as a hangover with legs
squints her way home.

I've seen the face of love.
It's buried in my pillow
twice a week.

Menstrual Math

Black lacy things
that hide under furniture.
Mascara on the pillowcase
warm water will remove.
Long hairs in the shower drain
and short hairs in the razorblade.
These are more things
your mother shouldn't see.

All that may be so
but I felt like I was living.
The laundry list of evidence
tastes better than the void.
The last five were Italian.
I've got this new hypothesis:
It's easier to sabotage
than let yourself be wrong.

I'm standing on this sand bar
a mile from the beach
with a fist cast in wax
from where I've held her candle.
Blessings come in ruthless waves
unnoticed 'til they're gone.
If one stares at what's missing
one becomes that same abyss.

Dirge

It must've looked suspicious: a sweaty man in boots and beard marching onto the wooded railroad tracks with a shovel in one hand and a cardboard box in the other. A stillborn? Blood money? He made it quick and found the spot where a younger man once played and buried friends: a hill in the forest behind his mother's house.

The moat was harder to cross than before, balance being a gift to the young. His longer stride made the incline a shorter bound, though. Once atop the crest he set down the coffin and spade in search of a spot he didn't pick fifteen years prior. The blade found moist earth never tilled by the likes of a mourner. He's changed, maybe grown, since the last time he chose a grave. He hacks at roots and clay with the folding army shovel he keeps in his truck for emergencies. It's the first time he's used it. It's the deepest grave he's dug, though not the deepest hole. He's proficient.

Once it's low enough to house her he wrestles the inevitable question. It's decided that to leave his friend without a parting pet would be heartless. His has always been too big. He stays true to form and opens the box for the first time. The rigid rabbit corpse takes a few last strokes that it sometimes almost tolerated.

She deserves a parting gift at this impromptu burial, aside from her freedom from captivity. He's come bearing only what his work garb includes. It dawns on him to dig through his black leather wallet-- the same one he's had for more than half his life-- in search of something worthy. The perfect token jumps out at him: his lucky two-dollar bill. He's been broke at bars in Manhattan and not used it. Stranded and thirsty and screwed. Trading it off seemed blasphemous. For the better part of a decade it's ridden on his hip. Now it's between the paws of a creature as rare as that currency. No boatman could stop her. It isn't superstition. She fancies good food and will need a means to purchase. Besides, he ponders, no luck can last forever.

The first tosses of dirt go slowly, the rest fill in like liquid. He lifts a larger rock than he could've in his prime and covers the fresh soil to protect the foxes and foragers from her wrath should they get curious. It occurs to scratch her uncreative name into the makeshift headstone, but he refrains in case kids come and wonder what's below.

He says a few words in his head about his strange friend who's given him lessons in both unrequited and unconditional love, making his descent back to the tracks that will lead him to his truck and reality. There, in the shadow of a wilderness still rampant as his memory, he lights a cigarette with fresh dirt under his fingernails and walks on in search of more.

coping

he invited me into his office to tell me what i already knew by the tone of his voice over the phone earlier. it's been a year of deaths. i recognize the sound by now, even when it's masked.

"she survived the surgery, but went into arrest afterward," he said after shaking my steady hand. "we resuscitated her once, but two hours later she passed. i'm sorry."

i avoid eye contact and rub a tattoo high up on my left arm: bugs. he notices.

"she was happy today," the vet lies.

"she was never happy," i quickly correct him.

"well, she was active. when we fed her and took her out of her cage she attacked all of us. the staff couldn't believe it. we called more people into the room to see for themselves. it was like in 'monty python and the holy grail'."

a sick smile spreads across my sweaty face as i respond to the chrome lining of the toilet. "she went out like a champ. she stayed true to form." i'm not talking to him at this point. i'm mocking the gods who just lost to a creature without opposable thumbs.

the expected reaction to losing a friend of five-and-a-half years doesn't come until i'm back in my truck. it's tainted with laughter, or maybe the opposite is true. some emotions, like exotic cocktails, are bizarre when mixed.

"true to form," i mutter at the rear-view mirror, an oddly silent cardboard box on the passenger seat next to me. "it's more than most can say."



RIP bun bun.
2008-2013.
you'll be missed, regardless of the lack of reciprocation.

For Those Who Claim To Not Piss In The Shower

Chomping into a deathburger
as my fries harden vessels
that once held clean blood
I watch while murky clouds
approach the carnival like a phalanx
in the lot across the street.

The mechanical merry-go-round
still spins the children blindly
and when the sky unleashes its deluge
the swings remain in motion
for long enough to tell me
that the operator is having his fun
for a change.

A poster on the nearest wall says
"Have it your way,"
but the carnie and I
know better than to falter.

Drenched parents corral soaked kids
in the downpour through the glass
while my fast food goes down slowly
one crow at a time.

"Preparation," I garble through a mouthful
to an unseen stranger
doing the youth justice.

The best favors go unacknowledged.

More Often Than Not

I could relate
to the businessman
commuting home today
on a motorcycle
tie flapping at 65
tightening around his neck
while the morning's meetings
were purged by the wind
up his shirt sleeves.

We're rarely what we seem to be.
Labels only choke us.

Beware the man with only one gun.
He probably knows how to use it.

On the Ropes

If you're waiting
watching, writhing
from a distance
now's the time
to make your move
while there's still something left.

I'm very good at pouring gin
down my open throat
and making a name for myself
in a town too small to tolerate
like closed-mouth kissing
or a crooked half-Windsor.

I see you through my blindfold
with my shoulders to the wall.
The firing line of women
casually loading rifles
has you there among them
though your eyes don't look the same.

I wouldn't mind dying
if the right song was playing.
The French call it
"the little death".
Tell me, are they wrong?


Currently reading:
"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson.

Blunderbuss (for One-in-Four of You)

The bastard poured nails
down the barrel of his musket.
Now we're taking turns
tugging iron from our backs.

Remember the farmer
who defended his orchard
with rock salt shotshells
that stung without killing?
We didn't steal apples
from that corn-fed sadist.
His daughters would call
when they needed to scratch.

Daddy was jealous.
He used to get his
there in the hay
with gin on his breath.
No decent member
of Wilmington Parish
would believe little girls
with such faded dresses.

It went on for years
until that marked night
that we hopped the wrong fence
and heard signs of struggle.
We wish now we hadn't.
The sight was obscene.
He left her there bleeding
like it wasn't his blood.
You walked to Barstow
and left us to trample
what years of hurt silence
had built in her head.

The following week
we both met her sister.
The four of us dated
a month's worth of summers.
Then they shut down.
The damage was done.
Bruised, like sore apples
but no good for cider.
Their lovers won't be
in the fruit business, either.
The lists will grow long.
We've seen this before.

Remember the women
we both could've rescued
had sickened misfortune
not trifled instead?

Who are you kidding?
We needed our taming.
Now pass me that rifle.
I hear the police.

The Brood of Lucky '13

The next time the cicadas come
I'll be 46, with:
a mortgage or a hovel full of empties;
a woman brave enough to try it
or disproportionate arms;
kids, or more abortions
(more abortions, more abortions);
another list of the right people
I met at the wrong times.

Burrow back down your holes, bugs
and take your pressures with you.

I won't miss your humming
thrumming, buzzing
through my fumblings.
When the wind and rain
knock your vile remnants
from the tree bark
my pity will be elsewhere:

Seventeen more blinks.



Currently reading:
"Stalking Is A Contact Sport" by Fred Seton.

Rebound Blues (A Minor)

You don't want to be with me.
You want to be with someone.

You don't know the smells
that I emit when deep in sleep
or how my semen tastes
if I've been drinking too much coffee.

That habit I have of throwing clipped nails
between the wall and furniture
has yet to grate your nerves.

My transparency's still endearing.
The words can't come fast enough.

You don't hate my father for making me this way.
You're just glad he's back.
The kid's an added bonus.

The passages I've highlighted
in my attempt to find the answers
from the dead who line my bookshelves
haven't made you cringe.

My mother's silent threat
hasn't burned into your retinas.

Long Island remains a pleasant place
without me on its Tea.

And then I'll ask for sodomy
to make my birthday special.

You don't want to be with me.
You want to be with someone.
Thankfully
for both of us
I'm too punch-drunk to care.

Maybe There's a Tenth

Mickey went home last night. The first time we met she asked me to stay over, the wine as an excuse to avoid the drive, so long as we both agreed to keep hormones at bay. We did. It felt right. When I walked to my car the next morning, dress shirt slung over my shoulder, I swore there was an invisible force-field blocking all negative rays.

Last week she had me for dinner on a Wednesday and I didn't leave until Friday. She offered the invitation for Night 2 before lunch Thursday morning to alleviate the confusion of wondering, generous soul that she is. But last night, after a trip to the theater to see the cinematic telling of the most poignant pining novel of love, loss, redemption, and more loss, she gathered her things and left.

"I need space," was her rebuttal to the silent agony on my face. "Take as much time as necessary," I lied. When a man like me feels rejected he builds walls around his heart. I don't want time to do that. The risk here is too great. If only I hadn't asked her that presumptuous question two nights ago. If only I'd kept my suffering my own. Movie film is not the only thing projected. Try as we might, we carry our pasts.

It's been a hell of a morning: rolling in the sheets I changed before her arrival, wishing she'd left her scent in them, trying not to think of what this backward trend means, begging the cardiac masons inside my chest to stall as long as possible. The phone rang once between my dreams of the George Washington Bridge and my first car accident. It was a coworker, probably inviting me to a barbecue since today is one of those summertime holidays reserved for empty calories and socially acceptable alcoholism. I didn't answer.

I turned my phone on Silent Mode to avoid any further disturbances. I'd slept with the volume raised in case she changed her mind. Never turn it off, you'll seem unavailable. A lot is said by the status of a cell phone. "Here I am," or "I'm not here," or "Look at how pathetic I've become." The answers to all never matter. Only a prisoner of his own skull would dig that deep for meaning. I'm a writer by trade, a builder of rooftops to pay the bills. A man who tries to sell words as his own has to do his share of excavation in the mundane. Mickey loves that about me. Now, however, she's seeing its danger-- or she would be, if she'd felt comfortable enough to stay last night.

"The total package," her friend called me once during a conversation that spilled its way into ours in that gracious way reserved for winning affection through disclosure. Mickey was describing her newfound beau to her lifelong friend and confidante, suddenly teary-eyed, when the compliment came. What they often forget to acknowledge, however, is that these "total packages" tend to come with baggage. How can one expect it all without the addition of some caveats? The wheat is not so separate from the chaff. Character's built through fire, but it tends to leave some scars. Mine pop out at the worst possible moments-- like three in the morning, lying in bed with a tongue loosened by alcohol, a truth too honest to tell as the culprit.

I fight the urge to call her as best I can for a few hours. It's a tragic battle between What's Right For Me and What's Right For Us. That's what they don't say in the handbook: the transition from self-preservation to nurturing a bond is as bloody as birth and not as successful. Finally, and with heavy hands, my destiny can't wait. Her phone rings four times and I'm about to abort before the voicemail recording, but then her tired rasp greets me hesitantly.

"Good morning, Dave."

"Good morning, Mickey."

There wasn't enough time between dialing and speaking to compose more of an approach. I stare at the left half of my bed where she should be right now and go all in. My words can't penetrate that rare skull thicker than mine so I aim for the ribcage instead.

"The cat's dead."

"What?"

"That's why I called. I found him this morning, and..."

"Oh my God. Honey, I'm so sorry. I'll be right over."

"Are you sure?" I ask, faking humble reservation. "I know you said you needed some time."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm a woman with rules, but I'm not cruel. You sound terrible."

She's not inaccurate. I do sound terrible, though not because of the alleged death of any pets. I sound terrible because of her, because of her absence, because of what I've equated that to in my mind after years of being abandoned by the ones who've mattered in my life. Mostly, I sound terrible because I am. And I'm not going to make a liar out of either of us.

"See you in a bit, babe," she assures me.

"OK," I say before she hangs up.

It takes only a small amount of convincing to rouse myself from the sheets in search of the cat. It never liked me anyway. It's probably hiding under the couch as usual. A jacket and gloves will protect me from the scratches. My illness will distance me from the shame. Nothing, short of God, will protect its fragile neck from the beckoning of my need for love.

We learned more in kindergarten than the sum of what came after.

Some kids pissed their pants for attention.

I used to sit there and not say a word.

Teachers call home for the latter.

Pant

She was there.
Waiting for me.
Without knowing it.
Making strides through the dark.
Expertly. Silently. Crafting the mold.
From the cloth we would share.

There I was.
Thrashing blindly in the night.
Against what seemed unfair.
But was only the ricochet.
Of a life once lived too boldly.

When away went a spider.
Replaced by a scalpel.
That would let us cut chapters.
Clean out, like cancers.

There we were.

Here we are.
Now groping at the other's face.
To confirm what seems unlikely.
Still in the black.
But seeing a vision.
That others ignored.
Mercilessly. Thankfully.

Now no one flick the switch.

The Eulogy Fabrication Department

Jacob wrestled with his angel.
I've been sparring 'gainst myself.
So far it's a draw.
There's a dentist taking bets.

And every laugh
she can't hold back
is a testament
to this madman's right
to continue.

One day I'll be
the model I think I am.

Necessary Evils: A Penis Upon Us

It's coined in cuprous saliva
and foiled by caffeine
but the notion
remains the same:
a Freudian slit indeed.

"I'm a passing dream
that makes sense
once in awhile,"
should've been my last words
though they weren't.

With nothing scripted
it's tough to play Bogart
especially without
the smoking indoors.

Gas station roses
and pharmacy cards
will have to suffice
for the rendezvous.
Some nights I envy all of you
until I remember:
you're faking it, too.

It's like when you drive so far
that road names and townships
from your realm are repeated.

It's like when your best friends
are headstones.
What would Doc Holliday do?

He'd make more.

Flagrante Delicto

There's a floral arrangement
on the glass coffee table
in my attorney's waiting room
that resembles something
from that dated cartoon movie
with the wizard-mouse
I never liked.
I want to flick ashes
in the bulbous cups of the flowers
but they'd have me out of here
in cuffs if I even finger-fucked
the Bic in the left pocket of my Levi's.
My copy of "Papillon" laughs from my lap.

"Excuse me. Mr. Vargas?" interrupts the receptionist.
"Anthony will see you now."
She leaves off his greasy Italian surname
possibly an Esquire at the end
for the sake of making me feel comfortable.
I'm anything but.
Their charade isn't helping.
I know an act when I see one.
That's why I'm here in the first place.

His office is on the third floor
of a recently renovated walk-up.
I'm winded by the time I find
his glass paneled door
and enter to the smell
of fresh paint and new carpet.
Crime pays his bills
and business is booming.

I land my ass in one of two
leather chairs, positive that they're real.
Naturally, he's shaken my hand
before a word has a chance to escape.
"How are you, David?" he asks
knowing the answer.
"That's understandable," he replies
to my face's response.
It boils my balls to see how easily
I fall into the script these people
have spent years perfecting.
Sharks are born swimming, alright.

I can't beat myself up
but I could've thrown it back at him
by informing this leech
that sex doesn't feel good anymore
and I want to invest
in people.
There are stories about fuck-sweat
and disco tears that'd have his Guinea ass
scrambling for holy water.
But I spare him and break silent wind
in his expensive leather chair instead
hoping that it reaches his nostrils.

We go over the case.
He embellishes for what he thinks
is my benefit.
"It's happened to all of us,"
when clearly it hasn't.
The best of us, maybe
but not the whole lot.
I can feel salty beads forming
on my forehead.
The oscillating fan on the corner of his desk
must've quit turning years ago.
It's focused on him.

"Is it hot in here?" he strategically asks
seeing the sweat about to run down my brow.
His designer shirt doesn't lose a crease
as he opens the window behind his desk.
I almost acknowledge the lovely view
since a brick building faces us
from across the three-foot alleyway
but decide that he's not worth
my brand of jaundiced humor.
I'm well aware that he wasn't warm
and when I suggest we kill the radio playing
to eliminate any distractions
he looks at me like I've never
had two women in the course
of the same Friday night.
Still, he wants my vote of confidence
since that's the key to funding
his shameful operation:
the converted tenement, the student loans
represented by calligraphed degrees
hanging on four walls, the sleazy secretary
doing her nails downstairs
between sadistic billing sessions.

"Women like bad boys, Dave,"
he reminds me, managing to add
clairvoyance to his list of credentials.
"Men take broken bones
better than broken pride.
They didn't hang Him there all that time
merely to drain the life out of Him."
I cringe at this, though not for
its borderline blasphemy.
There's a degree of sympathy owed
from one potential convict
to the most famous One in history.
Hopefully my tale won't end as poetically.
It unsettles me to think that my fate's
in this man's hands as opposed to some Creator's.
Mythology went to the curb with
the old reel-to-reels my mother
tossed in a box for the trash man.

He skillyfully leaves the question of numbers
to me, furthering his act of sincerity.
"Retaining the firm," he calls it
but we both know it's, "Buying your freedom."
"That's our flat rate," he says in the Royal We
"whether we appear one time or twenty--
short of going to trial, of course."
His offer to appear makes me think
of that big-eared cartoon mouse
in the pointy sorcerer's hat again
this time with the face
of this olive skinned extortionist.

"Of course," I repeat sardonically.
"And here I was worrying that everything
I've heard about you people was true."
"It is, and then some," he responds
with a smile that has perjured the jury before.

I sign a name that looks nothing like mine
glancing around the room for a razor
with which to expedite the process
through opening a vein.

He's won this bout
like I prevailed in the one that got me here.
Eight years ago that beer bottle broke my nose
for the debut defeat, but there have been
a few shots at redemption for that scar.

Retire a champ.
Go out on top.
Do what it is that makes you happy
and keeps a good woman corralled.
But retire.

Blaspheme's Sabbath

Oh foolish child-- Every time you're blessed with sunsine you thank the recently deceased. By that logic, when it storms will you blame them for not protecting you from the deluge? Is the burn of every scorn you've tasted the fault of some supernatural power? How long will it be until you allow yourself to heal? Come to the only conclusion:  the weather is the weather, regardless of you or any superstition you've created to cope with loss and the question of being. Don't mistake coincidence and science for angels. Neither of them care for you. Neither of them sacrifice.

The world owes you nothing; it was here first. Trying to make sense of it will only leave you betrayed, confused, and vulnerable. Accept the inevitable and save the ache of undue suffering. We are placed here to do good for whatever roll of Time's dice we pull. We are blessed with the company of sacred souls and cursed by the presence of others. Still, we persevere. Don't make it to be more than the brief inning that it is. You'll get your chance at the plate. When you're gone what will they say? Nothing, if you're lucky. May the last one out close the door.

Now fetch me my sandals and call off the disciples. I've got work to do today. There's a load to be carried. There's a weight you can't bear. Did I lead you to believe that these weary eyes are speckless? Oh foolish child-- You've got so much to teach me.

Jinxed By Reading 'Papillon'

The lighting caught
his left arm perfectly
to show the weathered scars
I'd never expect to see there.
Another righty
but one who lacked ambition.
Down the road, not across the street.
I suppose I should be grateful.
Dead men tell no tales.

But I shoot looks at my wrist
when there's no watch upon it
and I've been glancing at the wall
where the clock stopped last week.
There's a dog in that car
with the windows closed tightly
and a dancer of sorts
has taken a liking
to a man who's had his shelves and safe emptied
by clowns with dull badges
and no sense of humor.

There are tramps and trollops
mice and mere men
none of whom can explain what to do
with this drawer full of cardigans
and bobby pins left like landmines.

A man on a megaphone
is screaming nothing
but saying it well
while girls in stirrups
claim their own fates.

You take the north side.
I'll watch the south.
Friends save judgment
for after the barrage.
Never again
will I turn myself in
on my kid brother's birthday.
My laughter has limits.

Snarl

Beware, the Toecutter
that dastardly fiend
who's sworn to his seekers
they're wasting their time.
He's honed and he's crafty.
His madness makes sense.
Believe his threats.
They won't take him alive.

The mistake that was made
presuming your safety
will get your name on the list
of his mates.
Jack and his ripping
through dainty old London
pale when compared
to crime in the States.

The rumors you've heard
on the buses are true.
Most of them stop
at the coroner's door.
The Chief was seen sobbing.
The rookies called wives.
The Toecutter's signature
shows no remorse.

He sings with his shears.
They've never been sharpened.
There's rust and there's blood
and some patches of hair.
Learn, if you must, where he
worships his treasures.
I can't inform you.
I've never been there.