I was sitting
at the front desk
of the gym where I worked,
when my friend Bobby
walked in.

We chatted awhile,
until he grimaced,
stepped back from the counter,
lifted a leg
and cut a loud ****
of the earth shaking variety.

“Jesus!” I said,
as we both giggled
like schoolboys.

Just then we both heard
the click click
of high heels coming
out of the locker room
and down the hallway.

He looked at me, wide eyed,
grabbed his gym bag,
and bolted
into an adjacent room.

Leaving me there,
in all of It.
****.

And it was the one
I feared it might be,
she of the goddess face
and statuesque figure,
whom we both coveted.

There she was,
click clicking her way
toward me,
right into It.

She smiled, said
“Have a nice day...”
“Day” trailing off
as she reached the
cloud’s odiferous perimeter.

She snorted somewhat,
looking at me
with furrowed brow,
then turned her head
and click clicked quickly
out the door.

I sighed,
hung my head in defeat,
but was unable
to suppress
a creeping grin.

Well played,
you *******.

Many times
I have felt the history
of fang and claw
written in my blood
rising to greet
the civilized world.

Triggered by
body language,
a certain look
or snicker,
a trespass
over an imaginary line.

It rises, a vibration
hovering in my chest,
gurgling low in my throat
like a bear growling.

And I am taken
out of my body
in a flash
to some psychic
killing field
where my hands
are around your throat
as I spit out the words,
“Laugh now!"

I breathe,
and return,
smiling at you
tight lipped
over what is left
of my canines,
devouring you
with my gaze instead.

I am human,
not animal.
I tell myself this.
I tell the vibrations
this truth,
hoping they’ll remember
next time.

But they have
a truth of their own,
and no ears
for mine.

Who am I to say?
Depending on the darkness
of this new age being born,
they may yet be a blessing.

I'm sitting on the curb,
I see a rusty old bolt
laying on the pavement.

I pick it up,
turn it and feel
its heft,
its cold edges,
my fingers
now stained orange.

I run fingertips
over threads
still sharp,
not stripped.

It once held
something together,

and still could.

grow thicker skin
like us
they say

also...
calm down
snap out of it
and let it go

advice
from friends
who seem to think
I'm someone else

they love him
this someone else
they've painted
this potential me
created in their image

while the flesh me
fails to explain
the experience
of this pulsing
straightjacketed
brain

the drop of errant blood
that pollutes the rest

what it's like
treading water with
concrete shoes

and how I tiptoe
like a cat burglar
around double helix
spiral staircases
trying to avoid
the mischievous child
who hides in dark corners
lobbing sticks of dynamite
in my path

I explain all this
but they are not appeased

they trumpet laughter
through their scaly trunks

I turn and walk
out the door into
my daily hailstorm
unprotected

Always pretended
at being a stone,
especially when crawling
on the floor yet again,
searching cracks
for broken pieces,
never quite finding them all.

But now here it is,
here it really is.
I've pretended it
into existence.

When I can't imagine
sitting across from you
(whoever you are)
at a little table
ever again,
and feeling the tickles
of tiny currents flowing
between us.

The invisible strands
that tug at me
as I lean closer
smiling, laughing,
and searching your eyes
for traces
of what I've lost.

covered with drywall dust
and shards of glass
one knuckle split
dripping red

some grains of sand
nestled inside
from a foggy grey
New England beach
where we once stood
gazing at our ship's torn sails
flapping in the wind

they'll find them
when they find me

they'll find them
spilling from the creases
of my still warm hand
as it opens
slowly

I was fifteen,
Jersey boy, displaced
from green suburbia
to a sagebrush sea.

I tried to drop my accent,
got a job at a horse ranch
shoveling ****,
wore cowboy boots.

Finally made a friend
in that dirt road valley,
taught me to sideways slide
and countersteer,
joyriding his mother's car
down rough roads
we shouldn’t be on,
sparks flying,
rocks bouncing
off the undercarriage.

And he had guns too,
pistols and rifles.
We hiked up into the hills,
shot at rusty
abandoned cars,
empty beer cans
or anything
that crawled
slithered or hopped.

Killing that jackrabbit
was a lucky shot.
I got him right through the eye
with a 22, on the fly,
just for fun.

We laughed
and high fived
as that black crater
in his head
did not stare at us
from the dusty ground.

I was in.