Sambuca & Second Chances

It's all we have

to be all we are

for whoever's left

who will listen.

The Good Samaritan's Concubine

"I see that you didn't

shave today

to fit into

your character."

When I was a kid

my old man was asked

to play the Penitent Thief

hanging on one 

of three makeshift crosses

in the Crucifixion Christmas play

put on by our church

in downtown Newburgh.

The role of Christ

had been reserved 

predictably

for the pastor

but I sometimes ask 

its writer, Luke

what if it hadn't?

Messiahs run

in our blood.

"Lady, this beard

took a week."

Currently reading:

"Dreams of the Astronaut" by Boom Boom Shapiro.

Ethan

You really haven’t lived 

until you’ve watched a rainstorm 

from an open garage door 

on a farm in western Vermont 

with a mason jar of Argentinian wine 

in your dry hand, post-peak foliage.

Currently reading:

“Don Quixote” by Miguel de Cervantes.

$pent Correctly

Going to market

or gallows

the same:

This facelessness endures/

Dehumanization.

(They beg for more.)

Don't ask him

to break stride

while appeasing a Pisces

with a lust for the sea.

Be part of the process

but not the Machine.

The Price of Doing Business

In the bowels 

of a storage unit

I puked into during a move

eleven years back

I find a pristine tackle box

that he made for me 

decades ago:

brand new lures

a stainless steel filet knife (made in China)

pliers without rust

sinkers not attached to my ankles.

If only he'd helped 

prepare me

for more

than the fish I'd never chase.

Currently reading:

"The Dark Half" by Stephen King.

Rejection

The artist tried to warn me

on the gripe with purple ink.

I look now at my shoulder

where my skin has faded:  pink.

Currently reading:

"Rattle:  Summer 2020."

Decoy Deployed

The shot rings out

as desired.

If they can't spare one

they can't have any.

"Armorer!" his intended customer

three stories below his abode

yells from the ground after firing into the air.

Crouched in a corner of the room

he turns his head toward a mirror

that's aimed at a second one

which delivers the image

of a man standing

in the designated parking spot.

Long ago he outlined it in orange paint

for the use of his patrons.

"Two boxes of of .243 here.

Forty rounds.

I'm seeking .223

or 9," his voice carries

plaintively through the window.

"You know that ran dry months ago,"

he replies as politely as an ammo dealer can.

"How about some .22?"

He envisions this man in tattered clothing

with a rabbit skewed on a poorly whittled spit

above his campfire later on that evening

a tiny hole in the flat skull 

courtesy of his offer.

"It's a deal in your favor."

"It'll feed you for the night."

The vagabond presents no argument

approaches the building

waits for the brass man to lower his basket

by a rope that he'd never expected to use this way

and deposits his half of the trade.

The recipient counts the cartridges

checking primers and projectiles

then scoops a handful of .22 rimfire rounds

from one of a dozen buckets

wraps them in a rag that was once a shirt

and lowers them to the hungry man

awaiting the basket's return.

This is how it's been for longer

than he's marked on his improvised calendar.

Some of them bring canned food

bottled water, or chocolate that's gone pale

but the payment for these is less.

An armed survivor can use his wares

to obtain any other item if he's got a gut

strong enough to do what many

thought they never could

prior to the collapse.

It pays to get comfortable 

with violence.

No one's tried to overtake him.

The only obvious method

would destroy the stockpile they seek.

Fire and gunpowder don't play well together;

or too well, perhaps, depending on perspective.

He used to hate the added elevation

of his brick-and-mortar residence 

on laundry, shopping, and garbage days

but in these un-Presidented times 

it's served him well.

Even patriots and prostitutes

know better

than to play cards

with a man named after a city.

Fiddling through his Winchester shells

he hears another holler

but sees no figure standing

in the specified space.

"Hoarder," his guest implores.

"Where are you?"

He contemplates the question

unsure of true response.

"I've got a box of books,"

declares his unknwon company.

"Which of them do you want?"

Collections of fiction and facts

were burned in the streets

during the collapse.

Only poetry remained.

They deemed it inconsequential.

"How many? What titles?"

He can't get the words out fast enough

to convey his excitement.

"Take a look," his salesman says

from the lot below his window.

He rises from his corner

and tilts his head over the sill

to read the covers

he's been previously denied.

There's a flash in the woodline

that he'll never see.

He was partly right:

It wasn't only fire.

The shot rings out

as desired.

If they can't spare one

they can't have any.

Cyborg

Computers

too 

are hindered

by memory

consumption.

A Lesson in Kinetics

While bushwhacking this morning

my mentor took a tumble

after gaining much momentum

down grade too steep for his knees.

I watched him land his dive

tossing his cane to the side

as he plowed into the dirt.

Starting but soon stopping 

a woodland jog

I helped him 

in the kindest way

by showing the teacher

what the pupil has learned:

I let him rise

on his own

and brush the leaves

from his beard.

Trigger Discipline

Our father called
to ask the inevitable.
I knew it’d come;
didn’t hasten its arrival.

“I want you to teach him
to shoot.”

My upbringing
two decades sooner
had a healthy dose of firearms.
It yielded a lasting respect
and a reverent appreciation

but I’d never force it on the kid.

The old man told me
the boy’s been asking to shoot
a .22 or two with me.
Maybe it's time.

He's won two spelling bees
through memorization.
We can worth with that.

The four basic rules [:
1. Treat all guns
as if they're always loaded.
2. Never aim the muzzle
at anything you are not
willing to destroy.
3. Keep your finger off the trigger
until your sights are on target.
4. Be sure of your target
and what is beyond.]
will be ingrained
in his growing brain
before he touches
the steel.

We'll do it right
or not at all.

That's how brothers are.
You'll see.


Currently reading:
"South of Heaven" by Jim Thompson.

Cetacean Stranding

A night of
venting
through towers
leads to
feared cliche:

"It'll come
together as
it should,"
she states
from a state
away.

He wonders
if that's
how
the world
still works
or if
it
ever did.

He looks
into a mirror
lies
and says
he still wants
kids.

Unmasked

A friendly deli Hindu
drops the plastic fork
for my owed shot
of potato salad
on his contaminated counter
missing my paper bag--
his intended
and sanitized target.

He reaches back instantly
to replace it
with another whale-killer
like his liquor license
is on the line.

"Don't worry about it, brother,"
I exalt him through
uncaffeinated teeth.
"We've all got
to die sometime."

He laughs in a tone
that doubts me
and spills my change
into a hand.


Currently reading:
"No Country for Old Men" by Cormac McCarthy.

The Garden Gun

Henry Repeating Arms
an American standard
unrelated to plumbing fixtures
released it this year:
A lever-action carbine
chambered for .22 shells
with a smoothbore barrel
so the pellets hold tight.

It's a concept with a niche:
Pest control firepower
with less collateral damage
to keep handy on a farm
or out back in the grove
for ridding the land of vermin.

Loaded with a lethal dose
of No. 12 BBs
called snakeshot or ratshot
dependent upon what's most hated
this handy piece of hardware
will dispatch local varmints
without destroying structures.

They've stained the stock
a shade of black
to distinguish it from rifles
but the theory has a flaw:

Anything you aim to kill
will only send a friend.


Currently reading:
"The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon" by Stephen King.

All I Know of Infectious Disease I've Learned From Watching Doc Holliday Die

With more pinned on him
than Judas
aside from tuberculosis
the dentist-turned-gambler
and part-time pistolero

saved or avenged
a few of his friends
through a different sort
of social distancing
with foemen.

When asked if conscience
weighed on his head
he admitted to coughing it up
with his lungs.

No stranger to new normals
he rode again
never noosed by backwoods bedfellows

nixed instead by the consumption
contracted from his mother
in a Georgian childhood
that's mostly disremembered.

Denied a lost shot of whiskey
"This is funny,"
he told a nurse
about dying in bare feet
without holes from bullets.

Heroes don't declare themselves
like politicos in press briefings.
History, Hollywood
and subtle parentheticals
establish whom to hail

but who doesn't like
some afternoon violence?
Who needs a break
from sanitized life?


Currently reading:
"Fighting Handguns" by Jeff Cooper.

Defanged Olympians

My old man'll turn
69 tomorrow
but I can't go see him
to celebrate.
I'm sick
o'discussing the Cause.

The world hides in a chrysalis
thin and gold-rimmed
like Bible paper
hoping to emerge;
Daniel from the lions' den.

If only we were in church
32 years ago.
He'd hand me his pack
of Luden's Throat Drops
(though none of us're ill)
to pass the time

like he got me through sermons
I couldn't understand
in pews I couldn't see over

happy to have
Wild Cherry
or Honey Lemon
unwrapped from wax paper
after an off-key song

but here we are
where no one's singing.

Today I'd settle
for Honey Licorice
or even the devil's candy
Butter Rum Life Savers
from a gray-haired man
who repeats himself--
a hero undeclared

though the sermon
remains the same:

Life's too short
to waste.
Memento mori.
That conversation
like any pair of hands
gets bloody.


Currently reading:
"Desperation" by Stephen King.

The Alarmist

The best way
to kill
something
that's ever meant
anything
to you:

Repeat it
until it
means nothing.


Currently reading:
"Fence:  Spring-Summer 2018".

Cargo Woes

There's a tractor-trailer
canted at sixty degrees
over a ditch
at the otherwise quiet
highway rest stop
I'm passing.
An oversize tow truck
is rigged to the front bumper.
Its companion is smaller
with a crane hooked
to the side of the vehicle in distress.

Despite the newsworthy spectacle
only one man is watching
this maneuver at 6:33 AM
clearly not a fellow driver.

Two dozen rigs are parked in the lot
in varying states of rest
but none of their operators
are gawking at the scene.
They've seen it before
or it's happened to them
or they grant their brother
the respect of communal privacy
or they're mingling with lot lizards
or they're too damn tired
from being on the road
to care.

I reach my destination
three minutes before
the projected time
of my GPS
and finish my last swig
of coffee.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Spring 2020".

Contenders

I'm wrapped up today
like a woebegone pugilist
with a splint on my wrist
from a doc-in-the-box
to help heal a sprain
or a strain or neither
that isn't carpal tunnel.

There's a ripped envelope
to my right with its contents
spewed across the kitchen table:
A xeroxed sheet of science notes
"for the kids"
from chapters 13 and 14
with outdated info on water purification
printed in purple ink;
A wheatback penny from 1939;
A Baptist tract with scripture
intended to save my soul;
And an invoice with stamps
labeled diagrams
and capitalized ballpoint pen
that details the free labor
of cleaning and oiling
the enclosed rifle spring
from before the Civil War.
At the bottom of the page
he's squeezed a website address
and scrawled his humble boast
of providing mail order since 1965.

I sniff the dark and greasy palm
of my hardened clinic bandage
and remember it's still me.

In eight minutes I'll cover
my forearm with a garbage bag
and take an overdue shower
but if I could do anything right now
sans words or repercussions
I'd hug a stranger from Pennsylvania
who's somehow made it to eighty.


Currently reading:
"Poetry:  July/August 2019".

Advice From a Time Capsule

There are
six words to say
in sincere declaration
during parking lot transactions
of used furniture
and crumpled money
between strangers
encountered on the Internet:

Thanks for not killing me
faster.


Currently reading:
"Under the Volcano" by Malcom Lowry.

Hands Down the Champion

As inquisitive as I was
while a child
of God
with many incipient
queries still forming
I never paused
to ponder
whether water
in all streams
falls at the same rate
or if factors may play
like gravity, temperature
slope, density
or the street value
of a kidney
made aware
that two of me
would kill each other
simian
disremembered
panhandlers arguing
for intersection real estate.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Winter 2019".

A Wildlife Vendetta

I made the mistake of telling a nine-year-old about a lost dog I'd been seeing in the shoulder of the interstate every morning before dawn for two weeks. Calls to canine catchers and the highway patrol led nowhere. The men were tired of hearing it on coffee break. I tossed a flashlight on my passenger seat and promised myself to stop the next time that I saw it. I did, and it ran; first across the darkened lanes, then into a ditch. My hazard lights blinked desperately while I hid my face from high-beams and returned to my truck.

Days went by without a sighting. It had been moving east. Maybe it was finally farther than my exit. A reprieve from the guilt of failure to save a stray would be godsent. None of this was to be, however. Shortly before six I saw remnants of an explosion of fur and flesh next to the white line where I'd last seen it alive. I lit a cigarette and drifted onto the rumble strip, drifted into work.

For days it decomposed until only dry bones, then dust, remained. Now it's bare asphalt. The boy's inquired twice since then if I've seen that dog again. I've answered in the negative. What I saw was not a dog. He's got plenty of time to fall in love with those who don't want to be rescued. There are years before he's got to weep for roadkill. I won't hasten its arrival.

I buttered a drawer that was squeaking and it worked. I sent a handwritten letter with no carbon copy or electronic trail to a cousin I've never met. I swallowed a few warm mouthfuls in the shower. A rabbit suffers in silence and when it dies they're all surprised. The Russian alphabet lacks the letter N. Every time it gets easier, but I wish he'd stop asking.



Currently reading:
"The Last Mastodon" by Christina Olson.

Stay Still

Our refrigerator's lodged
in a two-foot-wide corridor
only visible
if you're looking
for food
or headed to
the adjacent restroom.

There's a paper towel
held to the door
with a magnet
or two.
Even with all
the compromise
of moving in together
consolidating
eliminating
she's never questioned
why it's there.

Carved with black Sharpie
in angular
capital letters
it says
"LOVE
YOU MIKE
DAD"--
the
most beautiful
haiku
ever written
after eight years
of silence.

Best made
with what
he had
I yanked it
from my father's
kitchen table
a few years
back
in case
of



Currently reading:
"No Heroes" by Chris Offutt.

On Islands and Mainland

Prior to adolescence
my mother brought me to Wildwood.
Neither of us returned from Jersey
with beach burns fading to tans.
I only owned a snorkel
when visiting my old man
but I begged for a diving knife
at a gift shop on the boardwalk
so it rode home in the suitcase
that divorced kids know too well.

The stainless steel dagger
serrated on one side
an inch above the ricasso
was stamped with shame:
"Taiwan".
Four holes spanned the grip
to lighten
or for fingers
if you wanted them all broken
in a fight you'd entered to lose.

Its sheath was black and plastic
with a lever on a spring
that held the knife in place
when it wasn't stabbing sharks.
Through four slots in the sides
wove holed and buckled rubber
to strap it to a leg
though it only fit my arm;
a measuring mistake
made by young Asian makers.

It collected dust
in a surplus ammunition crate.
A few years later
when I felt the need for change
I tethered it to the bedpost
nearest the door and window
within my teenage reach.
The shiny blade protected me
from what I didn't know to fear.

It remained a silent sentry
until I moved upstate for college.
Where my mother put it
I've never called to ask.
What do you do with a diving knife
that you don't and never needed?

I hope a kid left a yard sale
newly inspired to swim.



Currently reading:
"Outer Dark" by Cormac McCarthy.

To Mitigate a Wishbone

The neighbor's new dog's
been barking all night
at the nothingness it senses--

its only competition
the gurgle through copper
of inefficient heating
in this dark and silent place.

I wonder which one of us
better handles
being alone.


Currently reading:
"Child of God" by Cormac McCarthy.

Chokepoint

That ugly fucker's head exploded
before the day's opening rays
hit the night-cooled sand.
We're trained since basic
to aim for center of mass:
torso, chest, vitals
but Terry tends to give the first one
a whirl like he's back home
twenty years ago in the hills of Tennessee
squirrel hunting, trying not
to damage much meat.
When you're that good
you've got to entertain yourself
regardless of what the manuals
or screaming drill sergeants say
half a globe away.

"Contact," I said lowly
as I confirmed the hit
through the scope above my 7.62
a half-second after he cycled the bolt
and chambered the next round
in the .300 he'd been issued this deployment.
All hell broke loose in the desert
as AKs fired blindly into the dim dawn.
"Contact, contact," I reiterated in the same tone
as Terry pushed the second and third ones
back two meters to the ground.

The party began to scatter.
We'd seen movement at their knees
prior to engaging
and assumed they were goats
but livestock don't have arms to flail
when picked up as human shields
by cowardly targets.

We'd been warned in our briefing about this group's
ruthless tactics and ordered not
to compromise the mission at all costs.
That's Uncle Sam's way of saying
"Leave your conscience at home, boys."
The kids--humans, not goats--were
too far off for us to hear their screaming.
Terry and I were grateful for that.
When his next shot kicked up dust
we were equally thankful for that.
I'd never seen Terry miss until then.
I have a few times since.

His wife had recently gone through stillbirth
as he was on a bird back to the sandbox.
I knew it was on his mind.
He dropped his mag and inserted one
full of heavier-grain ammo
as if the mild crosswind had caused
the last lighter bullet to drift.

Before he could acquire his next target
I painted the middle of the hot spot
with the laser designator
affixed to the front of my rifle
and called in an airstrike
on the radio clipped to my vest.
It was easier to push one button
than to pull a trigger a dozen times
with each shot hoping to hit a narrow margin
or miss.
We're a team, right or wrong
no matter which god's eyes are judging.

The missiles cruised down as we covered
ourselves as best we could for impact
feeling the ground shake beneath our prone bodies.
A charred crater kissed by the scornful sun
was the only evidence that our objective had been met.
The trek back to base was silent
aside from the crunching of sand
older than our continent.

He never thanked me outright
but the next time it was my turn
to empty the latrine he volunteered instead.
That's as close as it gets with guys like Terry.

He and his wife could try for another child
whenever he'd go stateside again.

We were told a few days later
by westernized adolescents
selling candy bars in the nearest town
that the sunset in their province
is beautiful as well.

Appalachian

I nearly tripped over his walking stick
at the convenience store
where I buy smokes and brownies.
He said he was
a union carpenter from Ohio;
that his trail name was Solo
since he travels alone to set his own pace;
that he wanted a bottle
of cheap vodka for camp
up on the ridge
later that night
while he'd recap the scenes
and strangers he'd seen.

Two miles north
all of his current possessions
sat unguarded within his pack
in the bed of my truck
as I waited in the liquor store parking lot.
He wasn't worried that I'd leave.
Part of me was.

Back across the bridge
we said our farewells.

Maybe the lift
wasn't free.
Perhaps we traded--
that hitchhiker and I--
a ride for a few more
justified moments alive.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Fall 2019".

Regimen

Orange juice.
Coffee.

Water.
Lemonade.
Water.

Gin.
Wine.
Gin.

Crocodile Tears

Too often
the cautionary tale
its victim a caricature
swathed in erotic violence
and fever dreams
falling on a sword
winds up rusting in the rubble
a prototype untrusted
though timeworn.

We'll look at each other
and say with a shrug
"I hope it wasn't heroin."

It's as though
they have less to lose.
It's clear they live not
for God.

We lost a lot of good men
on that beach
pleased at being beaten
at their own revolver game.

Lobsters on the Titanic

I was nine or ten years old
and hadn't yet learned
how little family matters.
We all leave here alone.

My father
born under the wrong sign
and recently back a bachelor
tried his best.
I knew that then
as well as I do now.
I don't know why
but name brand orange juice
was served with every meal--
steak; pasta; orange juice;
no idea.

I slept in a bed too large for me then
in a room furnished like a child's hotel.
The sheets were hunter green--
distinguished, but not the best
for concealing my nocturnal salivation
that plagues me to this day.
I had one of those fans from the 80s
with a vertical line of square buttons
in darkening shades of gray
somehow meant to delineate speed.
Every night I'd lean it
on the head of my mattress
drape the top sheet over the back
and form a cocoon of wind to sleep in
until my father came to wake me.

I hated his voice at that drowsy hour
but now I miss it
and someday I'll mourn.

The grass in his back yard
is high these days
but the neighbors can't see.
I'm glad that he's too busy
enjoying life with my brother
to mow.


Currently reading:
"Merchants of Death" by H.C. Engelbrecht and F.C. Hanighen.

Powder Keg Progressive

They're suspended now
less lethal than ever
cobbled specials mostly
and some heirlooms here and there.

Only one's been fired
of the thirty relics present.
Metal wasn't mastered
by the time of their creation.
Modern ammunition
exceeds its rated pressure.
Tinkers tried their hands
at customizing tools
forming traps instead
for the brave of later decades.

Hanging there from hooks
as Americana slices
steel and wood
and rented dust
the fairest form
of gun control.

A Damned Indemnitor

Maybe this is what he meant
that dead man so admired.
When he warned what it'd cost
perhaps this was the Everything--
widthwise and bilateral
bemoaning the task
of keeping your powder dry
while trying to drown a fish.

The harbor pilot fornicates
on the grenade factory floor
but no one bats an eye
feeding fevers and starving colds--
the human equivalent
to the aftertaste of mayonnaise.

Finished With Feeling the Moon

With recently found free time
thanks to the roll of construction
I built her two shelves
out of galvanized pipe
and fittings, some spare
and some bought
in the kitchen windowframe
since in our consolidation
for the aim of cohabitation
I hadn't anticipated
the inheriting
of a jungle.

The dangly vines
went on top
and some saplings on the bottom
much to her delight
when she called me
with surprise.
I was equally shocked
when the locks that hung
from the latter
were shorn by the time I'd arrived.
Gone were the natural curtains
I'd installed with the greenest intentions
to block the studio view
of the middle-aged painter
across the three-floor alley.

The clippings sat in a box
near the door
prepped to be ejected
from the home that we're still building.
She said that she wanted
to toss them in the woodline
behind our apartment--
returning them to earth
as opposed to an Albanian dumpster.

Tonight after dinner
I walked the kitchen trash
and went to the bank
while finishing a smoke.
She rounded the corner
as I returned, refuse in hand
true to word as always.
I bent back around the brick
to see if she stepped
to the forest.

Red Collar Crime

Our closer was always
one I'd written in college
with a line about
hawks perched beside highways
regardless of one's car company.
Whenever my guitar broke
it was during that song.

Today on my ride home
a "help truck"
sponsored by an insurance firm
idled in front of a wounded red-tailed
that was lying in the shoulder
of the battle-worn pavement.

It was the noblest act of humanity
I'd seen in those fifteen years.


Currently reading:
"The Crossing" by Cormac McCarthy.

Piss Jug

I've never told anyone
but you were only
another whore.
The day I drove to you
through a blizzard
a year later
you'd rolled in bed
waiting for the liquor
and a stranger to leave
as you made promises
you couldn't keep to me
about someday wanting children
and a weight worth three months.

A quarter year later
I came again
this time to check
on your latest drunken fumbling
after a whiskey lunch with your mentor
who was nothing more
than an old pervert
kind enough to drop you off
and tuck you in
with his own false mindwalks
through places that wouldn't be.
You were mad
that I said it smelled like a bar
under your blanket
and I left again
memorizing your address
to send you that published piece later.

Now when it snows
I know to seek shelter
in the nearest place
that knows me
not somewhere in the offing.
My dreams have subtitles
and my antiperspirant's giving
me cancer quicker than tobacco.
I'm doing as the Greeks
when in Rome
only as sick as my secrets--
a total noncombatant
where perspective trumps perception.

A minor's still my favorite chord.
What more do you want from family?

Porthole Postulation

For seven unquestioned years
I've watched the rise
from my eastward perch on the third floor
of this pile of bricks stacked in the 1890s.
Thousands of fools have climbed
the mountain a stone's throw away
as though doing so will bring them closer
to what they do not know.
Some even time their trite accomplishment.
I've laughed at them in my coffee mug
ignoring a slight hangover
cured by greasy eggs
and whatever form of pork I desire.

The largest of God's creations
that I've seen
ascends above those ambitious buffoons
so we can engage
in the staring contest of a lifetime.
Even through three massive windows
it can't scorch me or make me look away.

The aloes I've cultivated
on my kitchen windowsill
cheer for my victory
as that burning sphere
of hydrogen and helium
sulks far out of view.
I go about my day in peace
knowing that I've won
and earned the simple pleasures
like finishing my coffee on the couch
with a book by a dead man who got it.

Even when Manhattan Bohemians
bought the adjacent building
two years back
and added a third story
to try to block my view
I've prevailed.
The cuck of a husband paints
in his prison of an attic studio.
I wonder if my awkward form's inspired
this middle-aged stranger.
Through his one westward window
that wasn't on the blueprints
I'm sure he's seen me waltzing
in boxers and my cups
unflinching at what was meant to be
and the way it sometimes is.
The aloes sing louder on those days.

It's time to consider
leaving this sacred place
and its illuminated dust
floating through morning rays.
There are few things
that I'll miss more in this world
than my apartment
on a sunny Sunday morning.
One of them is you.
The aloes will understand.

Our Vendetta With Trees

"Want to know
why I love
eating broccoli?"
the boy asks.

His eyes go wide
as I verbalize
his answer.

I was a giant, too
once.


Currently reading:
"All the Pretty Horses" by Cormac McCarthy.

Relapse

He removes the packaged chocolate
carefully from his lady's musical tin
as per her suggestion
and replaces the pieces
with his mother's Christmas cookies
trying his hardest not to disturb the gears.
Only two notes explode from the brass
so he sets it down without
having to hide anything else tonight.

Last week she spins the dial
on her countertop decoration
and that struck song brings back
thoughts he'd tried to extinguish.
He pours another glass
and hopes she doesn't notice.

His mother shows him a snow globe
with two Siamese cats
beside a broken ball
and winds the knob
to play a song that makes them both
think too much, although he's only seven:
"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas".
They cry because they won't again
and put that orb away.

It's time to pack
twenty-eight years ago
and a box falls in the shuffle
mixed into divorce.
No one yet has seen
that the Santa sphere has shattered
but when the two of them
have left their home
they'll feel it worse than rent.

An Edible Peach

Claire makes a westbound left
and pops her haphazard selection
into the six-disc changer
of her ten-year-old sedan--
an obsolete invention then;
now a manacled medium.
She's in the mood for hip-hop
despite the purple Sharpie
that was used to label the mix.

Skipping through tracks
she finds one that's suitable
for her mood in the afternoon traffic.
Ten seconds into the song
she hears DJ One-Off declare
his dropping album.
Two minutes later
a chorus is plagued by the same
overdubbed recording.

She wonders if the man
who burned this CD
bothered to listen
to the downloaded music
before committing it to gift.
It's unclear in her head
whether the driver in front of her
is drunk or playing a stereo
too loud to notice
that the blinker's still on
after the turn
and whether or not
the man who made her this mix
knew and didn't care
about the edited version
or didn't check prior
to slipping it her way.
She'll never know
which is worse.

The next light turns green.
She accelerates into
a misremembered minefield
through bear country
during suicide season
while the artist, long broke
recites a longhand apology
in triplicate.


Currently reading:
"The Art of the Rifle" by Jeff Cooper.

Vacationland

Good with basic algebra
but lost by calculus
and bad at formulaic--
egads at the bloodbath
involved with poisoning
a parasite.

Feeling betrayed
that the Spaniard is a spy
not everything's a joke;
just most.

Buggered by exclusions
of contracts with the gods
it's best to take the violence
out west
to ram the gate
with the burden of proof
and the dreamless sleep
of the innocent.

To successfully dupe others
you must first fool yourself.

Someone's got to preach
in this godforsaken wasteland.

Stage Names

It was too cold for a full moon
when I entered his house
wearing one of three button-downs
he'd passed my way
through proper female channels.

Two salts of the building trades
separated by three decades
moonlit as comedians
over pizza and wine
with the women we love
who'd bound us through circumstance.
We verbally sparred
with heads low, moving fast
like prizefighters who'd never won
more than a laugh at coffee break
shining in seas of charlatans
and hoping for a neutrally lateral afterlife.

Sinister notions require much breeding space
but we made the best of that kitchen table.
In unison we raised holy hell
never overshooting
as the eaves fell
iron sharpening iron
both knowing where to stop
since we'd lost too many fathers
for a lifetime
and couldn't afford a fold.

In a subtle twinkle
above a firm handshake
and mutual pats on backs
of tired shoulders
I heard what he didn't say
or use as ammunition:
"My shirt looks good on you, kid."

Hypertext

My grandfather's tombstone
truly upstate
mostly plumb
eaten by acid rain
and installed by the lowest bidder

in late '83
months before
he could meet me
is inscribed:
"A beautiful day in the Adirondacks."

From what I've heard and seen
it's true
because he's gone.


Currently reading:
"Poetry:  January 2018".

Extortion Season

It's the day before
I'm going to try
to be a decent person
by taking the boy
on a walk through the woods
and every goddamn leaf
is blowing off the trees
at the end of peak foliage.

"This is why
they call it 'fall',"
I'll tell him
on our hike at Minnewaska.
"This is how it feels
to be a day late."
They're poor excuses
for what he'll learn later
regardless of my best intentions.

I consider a ride
to the Shawangunk Ridge
with rolls of Scotch in a satchel
to tape each warm-hued leaf
back to its limb for him
or would it be for me?

When the Eaves Fall

I overheard an overshoot:

She should have
shut the fuck up
after he called down
the measurement
but she couldn't help herself
from returning a failed favor.

"Semper fi," she whined
to the carpenter above
who'd measured
the steel beam's width
since she didn't have a ladder.

He appeared puzzled
ten feet in the air
then recalled the Marine Corps
sticker on his lid.

"It was my son," he stated slowly
returning his tape measure
to its holster on his belt.

"Thank him for his service,"
she asked of this stranger
foolishly proud
of her daily good deed.

"I can't," he said succinctly.

Over the cement mixer
over the excavator
over the jackhammer
over the shriek
of iron sharpening iron
I could hear an asshole pucker
as another one walked away

and that's why
it's always best
to do our jobs
and go the hell home

while we still can.


Currently reading:
"Bukowski for Beginners" by Carlos Polimeni.

Channeling Garfunkel

You take a break
from trying to like
the vegetarian ravioli
she whipped up at her place
to say a trademarked name
and turn another female off--
probably two.

"I like background noise,"
she protests between bites.
You mention the crickets
the window fan, the creaking
of old wood in her Victorian
and the voice that you're using
for no apparent good.
"Not on the table, then,"
she states in singular compromise
though the hockey puck's still quiet--
only listening, recording words
without her innocent blue light.

You think the next day after work
in your shower, where you focus best
that from seven years of living alone
silence to you is silver--
not a perfect gold, but close.

Silence is waiting for an ambush at dawn--
war paint donned; no prisoners.
Silence is an Irish goodbye
when it's warranted.
Silence is a humbled contrarian
biting his tongue 'til it bleeds.
Silence is the comfort
of purging your apartment
and tossing out mementos
with no one there to see you cry.
Silence is the black towel you lay out
to protect the sheets when necessary
for modified passion in the moment.
Silence is what makes you appreciate
the least important fingers
on your most important hand.
Silence is giving keys to your lover
yet receiving none in return.
Silence is the slight hangover
caused by a splash of weekday wine.
Silence is the peace
that calms you after labor
in the heat and in the dirt
and alongside those who loathe you.
Silence is what you hear at Union meetings
when you know better
than to voice your concerns.

Silence is the list
of heartaches you don't write.
Silence is when it ends
as it should
instead of well.
Silence is a friend
who is never inconsistent.
The same applies to family
since silence knows your blood.

No Backsies

A laundry bag's slung
over my shoulder
when I notice local news.
There's another smattering
of spider plant clippings
on the sidewalk
adjacent to the lot
where I park my ten-year-old truck
every day.
I've given away
two batches of them
to friends in search of life
neatly plucked
from the water-filled mason jars
where I housed them
in my kitchen's abundant sunlight.
My boots are heavy
but I descend three flights
since I won't sleep knowing
the rain's all that's keeping them alive.

I stand at the sink
rinsing the dirt from their long, striped leaves
and wonder if this is how my mother
acquired the ones she had when I was young.
The jars are filled with water again
and I place each plant in its own
separate receptacle, back on the rack
where the sun will land tomorrow
while I'm an hour south
earning a wage to fund my operation.

"They clean the air,"
a friend told me once
withholding the blatantly obvious--
a distant critic who's never wrong
regardless and begrudgingly.

I light my second smoke of the night
after pouring another G'n'T
pondering the identity
of the scoundrel who'd desecrate
one of God's creations
by tossing bits and pieces
to a dirty curb.

Hypocrisy's for rookies.

Scaloppini

It's taken four days
for the smell of chicken cutlet
to exit my apartment.
I made nine packages
about 17 lbs
over the course of two hours
the night before a family pig roast
on Labor Day Weekend
since not all who eat meat
like pork
or are lost.

The tinfoil tray
I'd selected the day prior
in a grocery aisle I'd ignored before
was perfectly sized
for my offering.
Between breading and frying
I thought to bring
horded Chinese takeout containers
the next day
so people could take leftovers
back to their refrigerators.

By the end it was a rosemary encrusted
free-for-all, green dots of oregano
littering the counter.
I'd left the pans to their own devices
and a few morsels were burnt
due to my absent tongs.
In my attempt to right error
I became my mother
eating the dark filets
to hide the evidence
spare the diners
make sure it all would be eaten.
In a few bites
I almost grew up.


Currently reading:
"Father and Son" by Larry Brown.

Mary on the Half Shell

I wonder if the aloes
on the sill would still survive
if I only were to water them
when it rains outside.

As your elder I can tell you
that there's little left to chance.
Chop your least important fingers
from your most important hand.

It's best for all to end
as it should; not merely well.
Those who seek perfection
can revise the facts in hell.

Lost in right directions
with a splash of weekday wine
we enjoy our creature comforts
as the Vendor steals our time.

Pinky Ring

We go out back
in boxers that we might
or might not wear to bed
after one too many
gin-and-tonics
and an episode of
"The Sopranos" that's finally poignant.
Barefoot we walk
through the stained glass door
at the back of her Victorian's hallway
to sit upon a bench
made of plywood
that her landlord
built for the ad.
A plane passes overhead
while traffic hums
through the bridge to her left.
I finish my smoke first
since I do and she doesn't.
She passes me the rest of hers
asking, "Do you want this?"
Yes, I want this.

Cognoscenti

Dave was in the bowels
of Grand Central Terminal
minding his own business
mostly
well after midnight
while sitting on a typewriter
one of those old, boxed numbers
that's in your grandmother's closet
when a stranger interjected.

"You've missed the last one, man.
Find a hotel."

The bearer of bad news
pushed his broom triumphantly
proud of his attention to clockwork.

Dave turned his head
and smiled politely
without an air of arrogance--
a true man of faith.

The janitor spat at a rusted rail
but missed.
A rat the size of his newborn
carried a loaf of bread
with its teeth
into a shadow
that no one would ever see.

Much to his surprise
a train backed up to the platform
quietly, with purpose
and opened its door
for long enough
for Dave to enter
lugging his typewriter
and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc
that he'd hidden in his jacket
then pulled away
as silently as it had arrived.

The corrected authority
checked his ticking wristwatch.

Dave made it home
right on time.

Hellbent on the Horizon

Simmer down, Herodotus.
It won't be cinematic.
Falling's the best feeling
that no one wants to hear.

Living alone in a city
where art comes faster
than friends.

Thistle and shamrock.
Soapstone and ivory.
Andy Dufresne on a T-shirt.

Save the best laughs
for in person.
The Greeks killed themselves
with their tragedy.

The Second Coming

We're having at round two
when her cat gets in the way--
a literal roadblock
for its figurative cousin
attached to a sprawled recipient
as regal as a queen.
Her writhing thigh
bends my neck left
then right
in a combo Buster Douglas
must have once felt
in his prime.

Eschewing a "lack of services" case
I bob and weave and don't miss a beat
since such a crime
against such a face
would have me feeling my age again.
These failures must be dodged
when life's become
a series of medical appointments.
According to the cooking shows
I can't make scrambled eggs right
but I've still got this
if nothing else
and won't give up so easily.

Suddenly she's rising
though not from her own motion.
I look up from my task
not believing what I'm seeing.
Her face has gone blank
as she hovers over bedsheets.
I grab her ankles desperately
hellbent on completion.
The Rapture picked the worst time
to happen to this heathen.
A shock flows through my hands
and I'm forced to give release
though not the one I'd wanted
before this awkward apocalypse.

She's floated out of sight.
I scramble to the window.
It all makes sense in an instant
when I see the moon that's robbed us.
A nearby fire hydrant sprays a geyser
through a bumper.
Sirens blare in the background.
Her cat has disappeared.

Alone in the darkness
of her bedroom
I clamber for clothes.
Her alarm clock flashes midnight
though the box fan hasn't stopped.
I rub my jaw and taste her
and hope that it won't fade.
I hope the bridge is open
despite abandoned cars.
I wonder if I can make it
to my place before the fire.
I wonder if my gun safe
will be worth its weight in gold.

Devotional

Build a bear.
Build a bridge.
Build something
they'll remember you by.

Plant an aloe.
Plant a note.
Plant yourself
where you can help.

Burn a bill.
Burn a bridge.
Burn for what's bigger
than your landlord's account.

Bury hatchets.
Bury flesh.
Bury your heart
on an island.

60/40

You can't count
how many times
you've hit or rubbed your arm
accidentally against
the rusted anchor
dredged locally from the Hudson
and given to you
by a man over twice your age
who'd appreciate the irony
of how you've mounted it
to a cast iron vent pipe
rising through your apartment
dangerously close to your dinner table

nor do you recall
if your tetanus innoculation
is up to date
though your jaw would be hard to lock
regardless of infection
since you're the kind
that doesn't count a wad of cash
handed to him if eye contact's made.

Only the guilty defend themselves.

Pheromones

Half asleep
with a sore back
on your fake wood floor
your forearm as a pillow
you catch the sour scent
of your own sweat
and recollect it in others
from a time when such niceties
weren't ghosts misbehaving.

Storm Chaser

A lean, young doe
gallops at dawn
across a church meadow
in the first leg
of a worn commute.

My foot presses the brake
in anticipation of our
crossing trajectories
but her dash ends
at the massive stalk of broccoli
dying in the grass.

The eager deer partakes
of the tree's tender buds
without having to stretch her neck
or stand on her hind legs.

As we pile into the work van
half an hour later
the rest of the guys
start their daily ribbing
but my mind's not ready
to leave the day's first scene
yet.

Prolapse

In the shower this evening
my insides began to fall out.
I was surprisingly unalarmed.
It seemed like a natural progression.

I didn't notice while lathering
since parts are chopped
and added daily
to a body being borrowed.
That sting of the soap
is what gave it away.
The mucous membrane there
was affected and sent signals
to a place where thoughts occur
and fears are born of dreams.

This random revelation
was accepted as the latest
so I tucked myself
back in myself
grateful for limited taste buds.

A Driftwood Fire

We've had this rule
unwritten until now
for years of unbridled grace:
I'm only allowed
to love her sometimes.

13 lucky years ago
I did her dirty.
Since then I've been the reason
for her lack of self-esteem.
My penance should be paid by now
but you and I know
how history works
on the minds of inner children.

In the wake she goes for winners
out of jail and into hitting.
I was never that bad
though her psyche tells her different.
She gets drunk at Mahoney's
with the queers that she's befriended
and beckons me to drive
up the road that I hate most.

Usually we sleep
at her place with "Roseanne" playing
since she can't rest without it.
The script invades my dreams

But the last time she came south
and held my hand through dinner.
She took a page from mine
and paid while I was pissing.

We fucked like we were dying
faster than we are.
In the morning
while I brushed
she walked out to catch a cab.

I used to make her breakfast:
waffles, scrambled eggs.
Now I'm just a thought
in her cubicle
with water.

She's dating someone new.
I never had a crack
at a second up at bat
for all the times I answered
when the pipes would soon be calling.

Mumbling from the Masturbatorium

Prose--
The word sounds like
a precocious writer of essays
involuntarily celibate
standing with shoulders squared
and hands hanging stiffly.
It's not that I hate it
for making less sense
but rather, since I can't dance
pauses through line breaks
and punctuation
compensate for my deficiencies
in whichever life is real.

We sleep because
it's easier than waking
in a one-horse town
that pisses uphill in unison
thirsting for love
and choking on lust
that isn't worth it
compared to our collective
succumbing to loneliness.

Stanzas left to be discovered
like bobby pins on windowsills
depth charges in the darkness
slice and carve and operate
on tile floors in bathrooms.
Pretend you're unaware
that the blood will dry to brown.

It's not a lie if you believe it.
Gamble, spit, suffocate
and fuck with killer rhythm.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Fall 2017".

Two Drifting Dirigibles

It's been in my apartment
for over two months
outlasting most relationships
I've had in seven years
but when a seven-year-old boy
runs up three flights of stairs
to deliver a birthday balloon
in your misappropriated honor
for merely managing to exist
for another forlorn year
there's little motivation
to start being an adult
by popping and discarding it
in a manner that won't
strangle distant sea life
down the line.

The helium's dissipated
substantially so it hovers
two feet down from the ceiling.
This lack of persistent gas
has transformed the celebratory token
into a miniature ghost ship
floating through rented rooms
poorly passing for a home
like a renegade Zeppelin
that's evaded Allied flak.
Air currents that I wouldn't have
suspected in its absence
push the stubborn aircraft
around the empty space
between walls I've tried to enliven.

Late at night after dinner and wine
it creeps into my peripheral vision
often times startling a man
who's grown accustomed
to a motionless environment.
Too many Stephen King books
on one of several dusty shelves
conjure images more macabre
than its bright and festive colors.

It's in that contradiction
that I'm reminded of its source.
There's a child who still loves me
when I forget to love myself.

To Call in Reinforcements

There's a painted lady
who's seen better days
beside a road I don't travel
often enough.
Even at a speeding glance
I can see that it's in a state
of careful renovation.
The porch is missing
its fragile roof supported
by a battery of lumber
cut and angled
to provide ample support.

The craftsmen I most admire
are the ones who accept
this breed of task
boldly saying with surgical skill
"I can restore this.
You make sure the checks clear."
That silent confidence
is what defines the line
between a violin virtuoso
and a fool with a fiddle.

Take note of the man
who owns but one hammer.
He probably knows
how to use it.

Episiotomy Scars

The whirring in almost dog tones
commences for the night.
I ask her if she hears it
not so much to test her ears
as to question my flickering senses
while we gulp white
from safely stemless glasses on the couch.

She confirms the presence of sound
aside from my half-drunk rambling.
I state that it's also audible
outside my apartment
as it has been for seven years
seemingly swirling down
from the street lights overhead.

Her theory involves a vent
though that's as far as her words go.
Perhaps she's referring
to a spherical globe of slotted tin
that spins atop a roof arbitrarily
but I play coy for argument's sake
stating instead that the noise
is the voice of God
that we mere mortals can't decipher.

She looks at me like I'm a madman.
Maybe for a moment I am
but the droning has stopped
and stays silent
as though one of us
who tends to shoot left
has suddenly hit
when it mattered.


Currently reading:
"The Beast God Forgot to Invent" by Jim Harrison.

Hyphenated Surnames

There are times
and places
people
and things
leading up
to where we now are.

There are tired faces;
ripped and thrown rings.
Two cigarettes
walked to a car.

With pianist's fingers
and eyebrows that rise
we agree to let the check linger.

There are tired places;
laughter that stings.
Saturday feels
much too far.

Aces and Eights

All I wanted was enough coffee
to pry my eyes open for driving
through the headlit dawn.
Inside the nearest gas station
a retired Irishman
and his Middle Eastern counterpart
froze their morning screenplay
upon my quiet arrival.

The latter stopped punching numbers
and grabbed a can of electronics cleaner
to blast counters, screens, and keyboards.
His luckless customer stood looking
like a man guilty of espionage
in a country that still beheads.

I poured my share, paid the clerk
and made my way for the exit.
The script picked up again
as the white-haired hopeful
declared his precious numbers
in low tones used in confessional booths
since I was out of earshot
and his secret would be safe.

The rest of my day had no more subtle sins.
Without belief in magic
there can't be such infractions.

Resurrection

Leaning on a boulder
that lines my uncle's fire pit
I put myself in the kid's shoes.
When I was his age
there were cousins to chase
in the basement before dinner.
All he's got at almost eight
is a brother who's watching him
char up his hands
with a stick he's pulled
from the embers.

We say our goodbyes.
He's been well behaved.
On the ride home he sleeps
on the plastic tray of leftovers.

I hope that tomorrow
when he wakes to soak the day
the smoke smell on his hands
reminds him of our blaze.


Currently reading:
"The Hemingway Patrols" by Terry Mort.

Want Ad

SHM seeks SWF, 24-35;
nurses preferable;
smokers not discouraged.

Vague emphasis placed on dutiful desire
to court, help train replacements.
Coitus interruptus only a temporary solution.
Must love children.

Should appreciate barrel-chested physique
of Hemingway in his thirties
minus the ability to box, fish
take life of any kind, write objectively
or find beauty in bullfights.
Should appreciate
men who love Hemingway anyway.
Should appreciate Hemingway.
Pension will only appreciate in value
unless it fails.

Underdog lovers a plus.
Those amazed by merit
in the negative
like how a pound of bacon
cooks down deliciously
jump to almost the front of the line
second only to nurses.

An ability to comprehend
the meaning of the phrase
"so successful in the jungle"
strongly favored over cutters of cookies.
Points given for baking skills
and an affinity for chocolate.
Garlic is life.

Firearm friendly only.
What's a cowboy without it?

Might have stopped speaking
of beautiful things
once their frequency diminished.

It took three blown bulbs
in as many weeks
before the fixture was decommissioned.

Don't inquire within.

Breakfast in Bed

It's found on the floor
of your apartment
by two friends from your hometown
who've never been here until now.
Some sort of crystal
the color of your morning sink spit
after a night you've smoked too much
an inch-and-a-quarter long
with hexagonal sides
and a point on each end
cloudy in its interior;
it's probably plastic
like the rest.

You wonder where it came from
and if you've bedded a witch lately
or your landlords have cast a hex.

Cocksure without marching powder
you toss it on the dining room table
playing down its odd discovery
with another tale of undue glory
from nights you barely remember
making note in gray matter
to investigate its origin
on a morning much like this one
with a scratch on your thigh
from the heel of a stiletto
bought for a song
and a growling dog dream.

Consuming from dented cans
is dangerous.
It's not a secret
if two people know.

Youthful Mating Calls

It takes a sick word
like "vivisection"
to clean between the tines.
When your tongue's cut
licking envelopes
is the last sign
that it's over.

If the smell of citronella
doesn't bring you back
to swatting gnats
then it's best
we killed our baby
and whatever else was shared.

Quarter Rican Dixie

She's that cigarette
you find on the floor
of your passenger seat.
You have to try
although you know
it's long stale--
One puff to be sure
before it's tossed
out the window
at a late model sedan
that's been tailgating
for miles.

Local moguls will concur
that the merit of breakfast in bed
can be argued
but the West is rather wild.
Trust me since I've been.

Forensic Photosynthesis

It's become a unit of time
in a makeshift hermitage.
Two aloes every Sunday
in the eastward kitchen window
receive their pints
rain or shine.
The weeks shrink shorter.
Momentum builds.
Kinetic.

Today the water filters through
overflows from underneath
covering the sill
with excess undesired
like proposals scoffed
by ears too proud.
A towel's spread to soak it up
so the paint won't swell and chip.
The landlord will keep the deposit
regardless of this effort.

Their roots will suck the remainder
through capillary action.
Each molecule contributes.
Shoots will sprout their flowers.

Where nature's fooled
both art and science
is the inconsistent thirst.
What's measured and poured
and savored for months
is too much today
in tandem.

Marital Marsh

The cork broke coming out
of the wine you sent me
for my birthday last week
though you knew
it's not my varietal
and I understood
why I sat here like a charlatan
waiting for your invitation.

It scares me that antibiotics
won't work when I get older.
Karma will claim me
long before
red meat has had its chance.

Next of kin are notified.
The table of contents is altered.
I think now, looking back:
Three years is long enough.

Darling, how are you?
Is this for what you've asked?
Only allowed to love you sometimes
I feel, I grope for a future.

Corked Uncanny

It's been months
since he's been over
but he struts through my threshold
like Patton over the Rhine.
Not missing a chance to narrate
he describes what's new
and what's changed here
since his return.

At seven he's already
a master storyteller.
Entering the living room
he spots a foreign souvenir
stationed atop a bookshelf.
"I bought that for you on vacation
with mommy," he explains
while stroking the ship in a bottle--
visions of the Caribbean coursing
through his brain.

I grin and thank him again
for a gift that he can't understand yet
holding back a sermon
on other feats
that seem infeasible.

Have Gun, Will Travel

My second-favorite bartender
of all relative time
pops into the passenger seat
of a truck that's outperformed
its owner in ways the commercials
would never dare to mention.
Hypocrites ain't big on history.
It's hard to believe that I was 17
17 years ago, but my truck's
not like a rock.

It's almost her turn
to watch old men drown themselves
next to a murky river
but she's asked me to stop
on my way home from the same.
A white plastic shopping bag
laden with food containers
is placed on the floor
between her legs--
two places I know well
as she smirks at my amazement.

I notice that the tape
holding one of her hair extensions
is showing through the ponytail
she's thrown up in a rush.
She tells me that it doesn't matter
since she's not able to see it.
Pleased with her good deed
she exits, clad in black.

Before I shift the transmission
to head back where I hang myself nightly
I lean forward from the seat
to rub the surgical scar on my back
feeling the raised suture sites
and wonder if the doctor
removed more than he said.

The Nurse Who More or Less Killed You

Cleaning out closets
on a nearly pantsless Sunday
you drag bags and boxes
from corners you've never seen
since you were working
during the move.
She painted accent walls
and decorated;
put your books on shelves
though you'd begged her not to
because the order made sense
in your head.

Seven years later
you're bursting through beams
so it's time to purge
the person you evicted.
What you find brings you back
to an era more stable.
You see her hand
in the placement of things
and recall her brain's operation.

Cans of paint and some brushes.
Sheets that don't fit your bed.
A dress that you've never
peeled off her
still hangs from a hook
in the back.
The GPS that you bought her
though without you
she found her way easily.
There's a gray plastic bag
with a knot that's not yours.
You open it, expecting Pandora.
Some makeup, shampoo
a toothbrush, a razor
and a T-shirt
you can't help
but shove to your face.
It smells only now
of cast aside cotton.

Every ounce of your discovery
winds up in the dumpster.
San Francisco's too far
to ship and to handle.

Sea-Lashed

A wasted day at work
warrants a new wine.
Abortions are best
put to rest by a bottle.
This Sauvignon Blanc
from Southern Australia
lured me with its trout
on the label
like a fish in the aisle.
2014 was a better year
so it was worth a shot.

The notes, as described
reflect citrus and tropics.
There's nothing I hate more
than a liar put in print.
A tab on the left says
"To Remember, Peel Here".
I do so and look on the back
of the paper
but it's enviously blank.

I read the front again:
The brand, region
year, and varietal.
It's only a note
to stick in your wallet
for the next time
at the liquor store
in case you can't recall
what's worthy.

I shove it down the empty neck;
a meaningless message in a bottle.
I won't need the token.
Their marketing is brilliant
though millions
could be made
if it helped to forget.

My better hand rubs
a crooked coat of arms
and tries to bury a decade.

I wonder if I'll have
the tools I'll need for tomorrow.


Currently reading:
"Geek Love" by Katherine Dunn.

How to Get Laid Through Housekeeping

Before the big date
some cleaning's in order
but don't go overboard.
You've got to sweep
the cobwebs just enough.
If it's spotless
you're a serial killer.
Make it look lived-in
though lately
you're surviving.
Make it seem normal
though no one after 30
knows exactly what that is.
Sweep, but leave a few dust lines.
Wash that pile of dishes
but not the French press
like you made coffee this morning.
Show her that you function
on a daily, healthy basis.

The ashtray's always empty
since you hate that you smoke
inside at night
when you're sipping wine
and typing
with a box fan in the window
so don't worry about that.

Think of Hemingway;
the wars he was blown up in
and watched from the sidelines.
Remember how it happened in Spain.

Your friends would urge you
to toss the tablecloth.
Ignore them.
It's been there for you
through too many nights.
The burn holes only add character.

Under the influence of estrogen
clinging to clarity
and notes that you've saved
acknowledge the fact
that you've checked three times over:
There is no change
for the high altitude recipe.

Scratch your trigger finger
on a nightcap
and suck down the rest.

That dead fly you found
in the bottom of the fridge
has never heard of a husband stitch.
It's grateful.

Juxtaposing

I hunted down this print
I'd seen in an art show long ago.
At the time I couldn't justify
the dough
but soon after I regretted it.
Years later I found it again
and the photographer
as a bonus.
For a short time
we created together
though these collaborations
tend to ebb.
Then I was left
with a 20 x 30
and the memory of her taste
250 shy of my next antique rifle.

My allure made sense
after our fling had flung.
A visiting uncle recognized
the setting:
a mental institution, now closed
where three of my family members
had worked in the 70s.
Its source was awkwardly confirmed
on a night of too much Pinot.
With absence comes appreciation.
Redemption's far more rare.

For a year it fought
the good fight
on my living room's best wall.
The shadow boxes
and display cases
containing local war relics
closed in like rabid Huns.
Eventually it stood out
too much for wayward guests.
I took it down;
replaced it with another
frame of dust.

Last week I walked the line
from my kitchen to my bedroom
staring at the brick
that faced me from the wall.
Twenty feet of focus
through a doorframe
sparked a thought.
I hung the photo in that spot
with two nails and a level.
It helps to have a goal in mind
even if it changes.

Brand Loyalty

Whether headlights are flashed
because there's

a speed trap ahead
or an accident
or a deer in the median
or someone's forgotten them at dusk
or someone's got a burnt bulb
or someone's got their brights on
unnecessarily

there are two types of people
in this speeding world:

Those who slow down
take note
or dim

and those who are foolish
and don't.


Currently reading:
"Poetry" (October 2017).

Dumpster Sounds

There was a time
when I'd light candles
for shit like this.
Now I answer the door
in day-old boxers
and bitch if they toss their keys
on my glass-topped coffee table
like the scratches in its surface
aren't mine.

Sloppy after alcohol
the teeth rub freely.
Adam should've pulled out.
Now it's all gone nuclear.

She lies on my chest
a leg thrown across
my heaving abdomen.
"That hurts," I protest
on behalf of my bladder
too sweaty and drained
to go empty it.
"Did you miss me?" she asks.
Hating when they fish
for tenderness long gone
I reply in the negative
and cling to transparency
like a buoy with a hole.
"I don't miss anyone
these days."
It's more convenient
to lie for both of us.
She leaves
when she senses
it's time.

A carpenter's apprentice
is started inside closets.
My fuck-ups are on display
with arms too short
to box with God.

44

And if
even then
you can find
no one
or nothing
for which
to continue
think of how
cherry tomatoes
taste
like candy
even from the store.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

The strangest acquaintances come briefly
but hard with the Universe's sole intent
of making you grateful for your own
set of unwieldly problems.
That jackhammer-toting
toothpaste model motherfucker
had months of unemployment benefits
forged by his shacked-up whack-job
whose fake tits he bought
after leaving his wife for fellatio.
I went to the trooper barracks with him
when he found the Walmart receipts.

I was also there when the local PD
came another time during one of their several
domestic disputes fueled by Bud bottles
and pills he was once prescribed.
It was an odd home to have dinner in
for those wild months in Marlboro Country.
His bride-to-never-be
was deathly allergic to seafood
so that was off the menu.

She drove me unfairly nuts in her own way
despite our lack of carnal relations
though I'd seen all the silicone
and her Holiest of Holies
by Scout's Honor accident one afternoon
when that sociopath called me into his den
while seated at his obsolete computer
watching an amateur porn he'd made of them
complete with less-than-special effects.
People are fucking weird, man.

What pushed me over the edge, however
was the exaggerated way in which
she pronounced the letter T
at the end of a word
as though it added legitimizing emphasis
to whatever dull point she was making.
It sounded like a toddler
in an alphabet exercise.
It sounded like muted hi-hat cymbals.
It sounded like venom being spat
from a whore who'd never got the hang
of swallowing her trade.

Why do I ponder this now
seven years later
with a hefty mug of gin
and a handful of unfinished orange bottles
locked away
since I hate their evil contents?
Like I told you before:
People are fucking weird, man.

Popular Misnomers

It must be monotonous
managing a grocery store
so events like this are cherished.
Name tag freshly polished
she reprimands my leaving
of coupons near corresponding items
tucked into metal shelves
for unsuspecting strangers to find.
She asks me to come
to the customer service desk.
I comply for sheer amusement
unaware of what is waiting.

A man in a black polo shirt sweats profusely.
He asks to see my discount card
and depletes its 456 gas points
through four seconds of keystrokes
after I hand it over.
Once returned, both employees
inform me that I'm lucky to receive
a verbal warning as opposed to
fullest prosecution allowed for violators.
Lacking the patience to ask of laws
I proceed to the nearest checkout
foregoing the rest of my list.

My ride home rife with confusion
reminds me via radio spot
that I haven't played badminton in 24 years.
Fighter pilot or not
it takes five to make an ace.
The ones we spare today
are the ones who'll shoot us tomorrow.


Currently reading:
"History of the Great Iron Chain" by Francis Bannerman.

To Clear the Name of a Brother

[What is love]

Shampoo stings
the corner of your eye.
You peaked seven, eight
years ago
when there was still a witness
worth a damn.
The wise ones fled the field
leapt from pages
like every blade was ablaze.

[but unfinished business]

It used to be the litmus
by which you judged your salt:
If your life were a book
would you be
your favorite player?
Now you wonder
why the Author
didn't write that role out sooner.

[to which you surrender]

Art's aim is reaction
you'd argue
justifying life
through fibs sold as fiction

[each day that you can?]

each day that you can.

Weathervane

I found it in a pile
of detritus
and set it aside
like a handwritten shrine.
"200-
Paid in full"
scrawled beneath a date
that seems closer
than it is
below an address label
from the gallery
across the street.

Jay met Jackie once
and hugged her
like he knew.
For her birthday
two months later
I bought her the piece
with storefronts and trees;
duality, the change
that she loved.

I wonder now
as I've switched
from wine to beer
for the night
if it's hanging
in her condo
for sale in Chicago
or covered by feet of garbage
waiting to turn to dust.

We parted when she thought
she carried our kin
mistakenly, running again
with bourbon on breath.

Hemingway said
it's the task of a writer
to tell the truth
but that's boring.

Let the Children Play

Her basement apartment's
20 degrees colder than what
the digital thermostat reads
when I show up after her shift.
My feet feel the frozen concrete
through the cheap tile
once I've removed my sneakers.
The forecast calls
for negative overnight temperatures.
This improvised icebox is
the last place I want to be
after working in the elements all week.

No airflow's felt from the vents.
She says it's been like this for months.
Her landlord threatened to evict her
when she complained about the furnace.
I inform her that it's not that simple
and he's the one breaking laws.
Her boundless victimhood
and fear of confrontation
refuse to believe me.
Though not each other
we know our roles.

I yank the control
free of the wall
to check its connections.
She's got no screwdriver small enough
in the toolbox her father assembled
like a lackluster consolation prize
for letting your child down your whole life
so I use the tip of a steak knife
to back out the screws labeled R and W.
Nothing happens when I jump the system
by touching the wires.
The furnace doesn't hum
through the drywall.
The heat doesn't pour
from the ducts.
Usually it works as an override.
It's a party trick of mine
like using a toothbrush
until the bristles are mashed flat.
I don't bother explaining the concept
as I reassemble her thermostat.

We sit and shiver on her couch
unable to ignore the chill.
I offer to speak to her landlord
the next day, set him straight
like a company foreman.
The subject drifts south.
She lies a few times
but I catch her
and turn into the skid.
That's reason enough to leave
without seeming cruel.
It's another party trick of mine
like attending funerals
to make sure the departed
are dead.


Currently reading:
"Hemingway on War" by Ernest Hemingway.

Polliwog Sonnet

I live a desperate
rifle shot from the foot
of a mountain.
No one's ever tried.
It's another rich assumption--
a posthumous treatise
on the merit of an uppercut.

Over six years here
and this new noise has arrived:
a creaking back-and-forth
like the rigging on a frigate.
I know it's only copper
of the heat pipes rubbing wood
but I'm grateful that it's waited.
For this I would have paid extra.

You think that you're the only one
who's asked these arms for waking?
Sirens in their songs
don't deviate from form.
Regardless of the calendar
they start to taste the same.

In dreams they all forgive me.
We sleep, and nothing more.

Cuffing Season

Though the cold spell's
frozen birds to power lines outside
Hector feels the sun
on his shoulders and his neck
as he gently flips eggs
on a morning.
The rest of him
is chilled
by the shade
in his apartment
but where the rays land
he's warm.

There's got to be a word
for this, he thinks.
There probably is
in Spanish
though his grandmother's
long dead.

From the bedroom
behind him
Hector hears
the tossing and straightening
of sheets.

He scoops the better eggs
onto a plate
for Rose of No Man's Land
or the most convincing facsimile.
In his dreams
they all forgive him.

You're either here
or you're wrong.


Currently reading:
"Jubilat" (Volume 31).

So Much for the Deposit

I'm rinsing
a lightly used muffin tin
when it dawns on me:
I don't miss
the newly absent
cabinet door
that for six years
hung next to the oven.
It had been rigged
twice before
once by the tenant prior
but the last two screws
I drove through its flimsy panels
while late for medication
on Christmas Eve
split the remainder
sealing its dumpster destination.
Unfastening it from the hinges
I straightened the pots
and pans inside to make them
more presentable
to any potential guests.
At peace with this latest state
I continue to wash the dishes.
What's a cabinet
but a shelf with a door?

Since I don't have television
I can better hear the sounds:
brick settling;
rusty water gurgling
through inefficient baseboard;
the aloes on the windowsill
slurping down their pints.
No one in Bridgeton
knows why I'm in Bridgeton
least of all myself.

Out of boredom
I read my prescription's description.
It claims to contain a chemical
that suppresses the portion
of the brain that triggers coughing.
What other parts
can scientists pinpoint
and subdue?

A Yuletide airplane
glistens through my dusty window
and I wonder when
the overdue meteor
will arrive to deliver mankind.
Hallelujah.

Don't let the textbooks
and strategists fool you:
The best place to be
is backed into a corner.


Currently reading:
"Anthem" by Ayn Rand.

Racing Improves the Breed

The cough syrup
goes down much smoother now
than it did as a kid.
You remember how your mother
always said a Spanish prayer
calling upon the names
of Fathers, Sons, and Ghosts
as you took your shot
obediently, unaware
of what would later haunt you.

Your fever dream delirium
brings news of another overdose
a Jezebel from long ago
whose death was overdue.
In the incubation of your contagion
you've been quarantined for days
lost in an algorithm
like a whore who lies about sailing
to anchor more free drinks.

The infection's moved to inner ears.
You feel it creeping from your throat.
While the hacking rasp is painful
you've enjoyed the lack of speech.

A woman you've never known
delivers soup and festive cookies.
Another whose anatomy
you could draw left-handed
from memory begs to pay a visit.
A third you should have married
thirteen lucky years ago
ends her day with invitation
to her couch, and tree, and more of that soup
but you decline for her sober sake
since the season of giving
doesn't preach of influenza.
It's mercy in old age;
attempted redemption.
Self-imposed solitude
brings in the Yuletide
with your greatest fear.

You think back to that prayer's preamble:
"Holy Father, Good Father..."
its Latin praise trailing off
and wonder if those words would still work.
Your mother never caught your ailment
though that's since
she wasn't afraid
back then.

Kill It in the Crib

Common to the ones
who came closest
is that coy look
cast along the right shoulder
before descending
the streetbound stairwell
with hopes of learning each step.

Burned into what's burning
the ancient lumber creaks.
It's laughter on the back porch;
a tire swing of the mind.

Careful, Icarus

Counter-rotated vertebrae
scream Mandarin obscenities
through a spine that's prone
to weakening
for imposters on the body.
It's frontier justice
in the sanctum sanctorum--
an aggressor from within
that cares not for confessions.

That concubine on the gurney
tasted like home
for a moment
as the defrocked sodomist
made apologetic gestures
to atone for party fouls.

Daggers drawn from backs
slit a few throats in turn.
Is that a sunrise or a sunset?
The photo fails to suggest.
Plus-one invitations
mean ample wine is catalyzed.

Crafters of killing-steel
put blood gutters in blades
through mercy.
Don't be taken
by subsequent sleepyheads:
Your enemy's enemies
are your enemies
as well.

A man with a bigger head once said
that matter can neither
be created nor destroyed;
Things don't simply
disappear
or do they?


Currently reading:
"Poetry", May 2017.

Seeking Conquistadors

I can't explain to you
why I'm suddenly in the market
for antique Spanish swords
from our war against Iberians
in Teddy Roosevelt's Caribbean
but here I am
hoping that geographic cures
will work--
A call to arms
that only the wounded
would heed.

It hurts to be so sober
on a Friday, half past eight
scouring Bannerman catalogues 110 years old
for militaria that one can no longer purchase
though if your love has left you
then perhaps you can relate.

A product description
catches my eye:
"SPANISH INFANTRY OFFICER'S SWORD,
with blade and scabbard broken in two.
Probably done so as not to surrender
complete sword.
Blade is Marked...
Captured in Cuba.
Price $6.00."

Instantly I want it
but the time machine required
is almost as improbable
as Jackie coming back.

We Spaniards are so stubborn
even in defeat
and some of us still breathing
never came back from battle.


Currently reading:
"The Rough Riders" by Theodore Roosevelt.

Zoning

You walk the line
of sycamores shooting forty feet
straight up from the sidewalk
and wonder which was there first.
That's how it works
in this world we've created:
First in, best dressed;
possession is nine-tenths of the law.

The same holds true
for this city itself.
Those who've moved
to its ranch grid of tree streets
and exposed brick walk-ups
have claimed it for their own.
An invisible gate
of vintage rack gentrification
has been conjured in the minds
of the visionary elite
slamming shut as soon
as they've paid their rental deposits
to keep out the rest
of those who would dare
to add to the roster.

You cross a busy intersection
beholding the non-bohemian behemoth
responsible for social outcry
among the congress of conquest.
The smell of the plywood
sheathing the incomplete
first floor hits your nostrils
but doesn't sting as smartly
as the wind that's brought November.
You wonder if the facade
is not the right hue of red
or the intended residents' demographic
doesn't wear the proper flannel.

Why the commotion?
Is life that bland?

A couple in their thirties
approaches the new building.
The woman snaps a photo
that she'll post soon from her phone
as her beau holds the leash
of the dog raised as their child.
It's wrapped in a plaid jacket
to fend off the season's bite
while across the street
in a gas station parking lot
two homeless men wear
a combination of piss-stained denim
and tattered army surplus
from a war with clearer lines.

One of them's named Patrick.
You've given him smokes
and bought him pints
at the dive on the corner
that lets him in
even though he doesn't care
about the game on either screen.
You've listened to his stories
and asked him where he sleeps.
None of this makes you a better person
but it angers you that the mentality in town
is more focused on what they deem an eyesore
than the people who need coats
more than some privileged cats and dogs do.

The menus are vast
and the rent is paid early
but this isn't a place
that you'll ever call "home".

To Buy a Man a Knife

A ditch near a Garrison pine row
reminds me of the time
we helped a driver from the Russian mob
out of a snowy rut one night.
We slowed at the crooked tail lights
of the black Mercedes sedan
which somehow didn't seem his
when we spoke to him through the window.
There was someone he could call for help
but he was afraid to dial.
We could tell.
His hands were shaking as hard as his English.
Maybe he'd just offed somebody.

Barely old enough to buy booze
we shouldn't have been stopping for strangers.
None of us carried steel back then.
We thrived on immortality
and false promises made in song.
Shin deep in salty snow
the three of us pushed stubbornly enough
at that costly bumper to get our Russian friend rolling.
He kept his momentum going--
not a honk, not a wave
not a wink in the side view mirror.

Specifics of the evening's remainder unclear
I can state with firm candor
that details be damned
we chased the elusive unmentionable
and one of us managed to find it.

Happy Hunting

My hands still smell like limes
from squeezing the night before
when I scratch my face
after buzzing her in downstairs.

She clatters by me
as though she rents the place
in a whirlwind of bags and winterwear
giving half a kiss in passing.

I stand in lucky boxers
and hungover bewilderment
unfairly agitated
that she never removes her shoes
at the door

but I sober myself
admitting
that I haven't swept since summer
and she hasn't arrived
to inspect my cleanliness.

It's quite the opposite
thank God.


Currently reading:
"The Regulators" by Stephen King (writing as Richard Bachman).

Fiction

"Tear right in,"
she says.
"I'm not the one
paying for it."

Mentors and Monsters

It used to be
that the deepest cold
I'd known
was at age 10
hunting
with my father
in the darkest time
of morning.
I prayed
for a premature sunrise
to a god I still believed in
and mistook every squirrel
crashing through leaves
for a buck.

There are people
cropped and cornered
who are watching
for your fall.

Make them wait.

Surviving the Transplant, Verbatim

She bounces back up
at the ping
possibly her boyfriend
as I notice the mark
on her forehead.
"A resident hit me,"
she says of the red
bobbing back down
for silence
more than me.

I tune out nerve endings
to hone in on the pattern:
A symmetrical stitch
perfect in its rendering.
She coughs mid-stride
so I make her laugh
against our stubborn will:
"Enter sickly Jew, stage left."

Afterward I inquire
of its origin.
"A bible," she protests
predicting my sad ecstasy.

Two sodomites giggle
in the throes of late white wine
as I chant "King James Version!"
and pretend to slap a face
that I'll never earn
in earnest.

[This is how the terminally ill
joke about the terminally ill
with the terminally ill
and we're all terminally ill
you idiot.]

A Fool for the Wounded

But when it was her turn
she needed me to maneuver
in a way that hurt my back
during and afterward
so I stopped giving her turns
and mine stopped coming, too.

We keelhauled our contagions;
should've killed them in their cribs.

All too familiar:
She looks like her
or close enough.
The smell would throw the illusion
but it can be made to work.

Susceptible miscreants
run from the huntsman.
I think I died
sometime on Wednesday.

Tell 'em "Smile."
Tell 'em "Sorry."
Tell 'em anything but the truth.

Crutch

It took six years
to notice
effects
of the marble Christ
at night
on that side street
where the church
spent dough
on spotlights
accentuating arms

outstretched.
Intricacies
in the stone
are afterthoughts
in low beams
there only for the timid
who pass
by day and legs.

An arm span
for measuring
two football
goalposts
an arrow
pointing downward
and those who fear
will follow.

Avian Anatomy

I cross the street
to greet him
as he stands without purpose
outside a corner bodega.
He gives his standard:
"I haven't seen you."
I give mine:
"I've been working."

Pulling my pack
from the plaid pocket
above my heart
I pass him a smoke.
He reaches for it
with unwashed hands
the dirt under his fingernails
a different type entirely.
It's not the job debris
I'm accustomed to scrubbing
or paint from a local drinkslinger's daytime endeavors.
It's the accumulation of time spent
sipping from bagged cans on sidewalks
and sleeping on benches
while tourists take photos of the buildings
that the homeless population can't enter.
I shake his hand
despite the hundreds of times
he's used it to hold himself in alleyways
since his last gas station sink bath
splashing like a day-drunk bird
in grandmother's backyard garden.

"This is harsh," he says
inhaling the clove cigarillo far too deeply.

"You get used to it,"
I tell an expert on wear and tear
who's aged without grace
in a city of fools for the wounded.

I leave the intersection
and forget all about that bearded apparition
as soon as I place my order from the stool.

You can only owe someone
for so long.