She wasn't shy
about telling her friends
she was banging him
for his bank account,
hundred grand and change.

A retirement plan,
of sorts.

She met him
while pouring drinks
at some biker bar dive,
a pseudo Vietnam vet,
beer belly, mostly toothless,
his battle stories
straight outta Hollywood.

And it wouldn't be long,
she said
with him looking
a bit yellow
but still hammering back shots
at the casino bar,
while she played
slot machines two at a time
a handle in each hand.

Occasionally, he'd yell,
"Let's go get a room
so you can **** my ****!"

I saw her after the inevitable,
said sorry to hear about Tommy.
(You never know...
there could have been
some human feelings)

And she smiled,
said "Yeah..."
her tone chipper.

She got the money,
and it was gone
in about a year.
She fed that flock
of fair weather friends
like a mama bird
and then they flew.

Now she’s looking
for another sucker,
and taking shots
at gold diggers
on social media.

"******* ******."

I found the secret to happiness
he tells me

his cheeks are red
and his left eye blackened
his arms a patchwork
of purple bruises
I take the bait and ask

I dont think anymore
he says
Ever?
If I do I slap
or pinch myself

A moment of silence
while I consider this
and then
Slap!

I flinch at the sound
look over
as he turns toward me
grinning
a tiny crack
in his lower lip
leaking blood

He does seem happy though

I hear only
static from the tower
muffled voices
see only
grey clouds below

I grip the stick
with both hands
knuckles white
swallow hard
at a lump
that won’t go down

and point the nose
of my little craft
as I dive into the storm
hoping for a runway
or even solid ground

I’m leaning against
a white fence
looking at a bare spot
where the paint has
chipped away

I think:
someone should paint this

as my hand reaches out
and my thumbnail
peels another large slab
exposing the grain

and I smile

You cannot shout
loudly enough
at the news on TV
or punch your keyboard
hard enough
with stiff index fingers
like little fists

to mold the world
to your desired shape

maybe
you can squint
narrowly enough
to glimpse your own countenance
in the pages of sacred books

But can you glare
intensely enough
to make those you despise
vanish?

And wouldn't you be lonely
if you could?

because it feels good
hating people

it’s more fun
and easier
than loving them

especially from a distance

building enemies of straw
and whacking them
like piñatas
with your vocal bludgeon

just as a child piles blocks
to knock them down
and cackle
at his destructive power

then pile them again

but he's aware
it’s a game

The neighbor's dog paces,
rope dangling from his collar,
dragging on the dusty ground.

When his master
pulls into the driveway
he sniffs and scratches at the fence,
whining and yelping.

The car door slams, and he
anticipates being let off the leash,
jumping and spinning in circles,
tongue out and tail wagging.

The man goes in the house
and does not come out,
and the whining and yelping
intensifies into a series of
beseeching barks.

My ears reject the sound,
my mouth wants to scream
“Shut the **** up!”
And my hands want
to clamp his snout shut.

It’s like hearing
the whining echoes
of impossible desires
as they pace the earth
inside my cave,
packing the soil
hard as cement.

He used to sit
with legs crossed
and hands folded
in his lap
for hours,
staring at the ticking clock.

One day I asked why.
“It’s all there is,” he said.

Then I heard
he decorated
that smug round face
and its Roman numerals
with blood, brain
and skull fragments
as those relentless hands
spun their slow waltz
in silence.

His handwritten note
said only,
“I got bored.”