Her man had left for California.
Left her with nothing but the dog
to fight the emptiness of her apartment.
She told me she couldn't sleep anymore,
told me she couldn't eat anymore.
She got sick,
so sick— swore that it was
tuberculosis, malaria, typhoid fever—
My experience led me to my own diagnosis;
another case of a love long lost.

I didn't have the heart to tell her.
Instead I slept with her,
despite the risk of sickness.
She was afraid it was contagious.
I laughed, told her I would
take the risk.

I stayed there two weeks, laughing.
She could eat again,
she could smile again,
she made up love late into the night.

It seemed like this
quarantine was paradise.
Till up one night there was a
knock on the door.
It seemed like her bags
were already packed.
It seemed like she was gone
within the few moments it took to see
who it was behind the door.
Told me to lock up the
apartment, leave the key under the
*** of wilted hydrangeas.
He was back from California.
It seemed like she was cured—
of her malaria, her yellow fever, her cholera—
Just like that, a clean bill of health.
A modern day
miracle.

It seemed to have been
contagious,
after all.

Laying in bed,

she told me 
all about her

most recent lover;

how he had broken

her like a clock.

“You see, I can’t move

anymore,” she said,
“You see, I can’t feel
anymore,” she said.

Her hands shook

and she got so pale
simply at the thought
of it all.

I rolled over,

—I am no superhero,

sweetheart—

Don’t believe I will save you,

Don’t believe I will kiss you,

I will not hold you hand.

“This isn't your rebound,
sweetheart, 
it is your rehabilitation,”

I told her.

This is your rehabilitation
for all the times

you fell in love

and couldn't get back
up,

for all the men
that seemed so sweet

but never delivered.

Don’t believe I will save you,
Don’t believe I will fix you,
“This isn't your resolution
,
sweetheart, it is your retribution,"

I told her.
This is your retribution,

so **** me

like all the men

who ****** you over,
like all the men
who broke you down.

**** me like 
a woman with no heart

and one day you will
realize it may not
 be
pretend anymore.

—I'm no superhero,

sweetheart—

But I will sure as hell

play the villain,

because most of 
the time
that is all you truly 
need.

stayed with a woman
and her sister
for a few weeks
up by the chesapeake
on a little river
with a dock
that audienced
the most beautiful
sunsets
a man could witness
she was a good woman
widowed
quick to think of others
before herself
never got drunk before noon
worked hard and long
for the money she earned
and I appreciated her
and her hospitality

her sister
smoked ****
and drank expensive wine
on that dock
during the earliest hours
of the day
looking upwards
all the way till that
beautiful sunset
I would join her
while her sister was hard
at work

I appreciated my woman
for her work habit
for the *** and the
hospitality she gave so
willingly and passionately
however I also appreciated
her sister
in many of the same ways
which is why I was asked
loudly and violently to
cut my visit short
after only two
quick weeks

I still miss
those sunsets

stopped for a
smoke on a
bench outside
some gas station off I-75
with nowhere to go
I shot the breeze alone
watching the night grow
it was nice
surrounded by woods
somewhere in Tennessee

went inside
to buy another
pack as it got later
wondering which
poison to go with
and saw this big
hundred gallon
tank
toward the back
of the store
it had a single
lobster inside

I stopped
a brief second
of confusion
--why's there a
lobster here
anyways?--
I couldn't help
but smile
a fellow comrade
alone but not lonely
a stalwart of
the night

walked to the counter
went with wine
paid and walked
back out
to my bench
winking at my
new friend on the
way out

I'll be ****** if
he didn't wag a claw
right back

You're mother hugged me
when I walked in.
Asked how I'd been.
Told me it had been too long.
Picked me dry about
every little detail of my life;
where I was,
how I was doing,
how the northeast was treating me.
--Oh, it's all so splendid!--
She was enamored, your mother,
and I took you before dinner
in the back room
where your brother used to sleep.
--Like riding a bike, one never
truly forgets a woman--
It was magnificent
in all the ways I had remembered
and your father had cooked
the beef tips and broccoli
that he had made for your
birthday dinner all those winters ago
and we made small talk over the
beat of clinked china and good drink.
--They had a nicer bottle
of red for the occasion--
There was an intimacy to it
one that almost betrayed our
hidden skeletons.
It had been years since I'd seen you
I'd been away and traveling,
engaging in school
and intellectual activity
but the reason I left
--to find myself, if you recall
I told your mother--
was still unknown to our hosts.
Your mother hugged me
and the guilt ripped throughout like
a nail through wet wood,
and the look in your eyes
with your hand on your stomach
convinced me that we were both
condemned and that
damnation was the only honest
retribution we could deserve
and somewhere right this moment
there is a child
with her grandparents
making love with cheerios
and wailing her antipathies for the
world to hear
but for us there is
none.
There is only the look you gave me
as your mother hugged me
and the emptiness that filled
and still fills my stomach
much greater and
much longer than
your father's cooking
ever could.

didn't shower
sitting in the cubicle
for long hours
didn't shower
and blood
is still on hands
and feet are still riddled
with dirt
staining cheap
carpet floorprint
afraid to touch
anything
coworkers peer
over
their fabric palisades
eyes burning holes
through ripped shirt
and crooked tie
head down
don't exist
no one has to
know a thing

didn't shower
hair is manged and
disoriented
I can feel blood
drip off fingertips
pat - pat - pat
on bland slate
carpet design
can't concentrate
didn't shower
everyone stares
black eye
swollen and scabbed
everyone knows
have to
it's all puddling at feet
washing with the dirt
look away

******* look away!

head is severed
on the mahogany finish desk
black eye bulged
black and purple tennis ball
everyone gathers
whispers whispers
jaw opens
teeth fall out
pat - pat - pat
no one says anything
look away look away
look away
get up to leave
the head stays there
dark souvenir

quick drive
home
shower
hours melt away
infirmities recede
sink back below skin
didn't shower
everyone knew
what happened
last night
but now
no evidence
no witnesses
no one knows
the perfect crime
a cruel smile
emerges on
bare white teeth
as night sets in once again

This is Icarus drowning:
wings once held up
now weight,
burdened toward
the bottom of the sea.
A father stands
alone
on destined shores,
words of warning
having left lips
now echoed empty
against the current.
And the sun
is evil only in apathy
if not in deed
smiling still
upon us all.

This is Icarus drowning:
hopes once held up
now weight,
burdened downward
toward that eager end.
Daedalus stands alone
at a funeral,
silent on distant shores,
with only the
current's whisper
as a eulogy.

The sorrow
of a world
is none to a father
lost of a son.

back in the driver's seat
for the first time in
a long while
cabin doors shut
all clear for takeoff
fasten your seatbelt
ladies and gents

it feels good to
feel good again

back on the railroad
caught between the current
and the cold
how is it ol' Cassady died?
they say he rode the tracks
all the way to Avalon
say it was exposure
that got him in the end
secobarbital and second hand smoke
waiting on a wet sunrise
that never came
counting railroad ties
half way to infinity
hell of a way to go
the hero of two generations
hell of a way to go
not with a bang
--as they say--
no one there to hear the whimper
4am ticket to shambhala

Hank gave up the grief
weeks before he died
crippled and old
poor *******
Bukowski could
hardly walk
down those hallways
to hell
maybe Hem did it best
Ti Jean died from that almighty
weight on his shoulders
unhappy with a dead liver
and a dead spirit. yes,
Hem did it best it seems
him and Hunter
--football season is over--
felt the world
slipping out
quick as it came
so they both put a
quick one to the brain

all of my old friends
are dead now
one way tickets to Shangri-La
I see them
they all walk the tracks
but they don't wait up
they don't wait up

light one for me
Hank
I'll be there soon enough

We were in middle school.
After the pre-algebra
exam we learned how
the body worked.
You took me into the
gymnasium and took that
left turn into the bathroom,
blew me
till your mother came
and picked you up
in her red sedan.

Then we were in high school,
and you ****** to fit in.
The drugs were
part of that too,
I suppose.
We weren't too close,
but I saw you
night after night,
making friends
in all the wrong ways.
Look how popular
you became.

Never went to college.
I don't know where
you ended up,
to be honest,
but you were a beautiful girl
with a beautiful spirit,
not like the shallow girls you
disguised yourself with.
There aren't many of you left
I'm afraid

I still think about you
and that day
after pre algebra.
--you got an A on that exam
I don't know if you remember--
Sad to think about.
I hope you're doing alright.
I hope life has you somewhere
the weather's warm,
and the sky is blue,
and the men are less
cruel than we were.

When thinking on everything
It's hard not to understand
Why people hope for
A greater being
Some form of deity
It's hard not
To hope for
An almighty design
After seeing
How humanity has
Killed itself
Hard not to hope

So I've come to an
Agreement
With my simple minded
Spirituality
And decided
That all of existence
Is made by some
Heavenly Author
Creating entertainment
For the almighty masses
A Celestial bestseller
So to speak

All the death
Catastrophe
Love and Hate and Chaos
All of it
In order to keep the
Pages turning

Therefore,
Just as
Mercutio was born to die

Just as
Every aspect of his character
And life
Was molded around the single
Unwavering moment
Of his death
At Tybalt's hand

Just as
He existed to serve his purpose
Between his best friend
And the tip of a blade
So must I serve
And finish a chapter
Of this epic poem

Write on, Shakespeare
I follow your lead

you can jump from
swing to swing
when you know the
safety net is there
all bottled up
in highways and
happy hours
long drives through
painted lines
and exit signs
long nights spent
swinging out
as far as you can
above that safety net
picking poison
from a stainless
steel spoon
and long mornings
spent picking up the
shards of a life
that longed to be
left behind
on the road
mile markers like handholds
climbing you farther and
farther up the mountain
closed eyes keep you far from home
rolled back in escape
those painted lines
those six lanes
seventy five miles
an hour toward everything
another spoonful
another baggie
another mile
keep me from thinking
keep me from feeling
keep me from the truth
all these safety nets
saving me from myself
another night
another fight
working futiliy to
keep that hand
tighter and tighter
around my throat

It was Tucson in the endless dog
days of an endless summer.
The heat was inescapable,
pooling in the window frames
and the air as it coughed from the vents:
A fever that would never break.

Two weeks we lay there, knee deep in the throws
of a heat that would never subdue, a summer
that would never end. You would knock on my door,
laying there on the bed, staring holes into the
dripped and melting ceiling.
You held a paper bag of cheap wine between
your ****** and tarnished fingers,
clinking against the rings you wore like
trophies. I don’t know where I found you,
golden brown and beautiful out amongst
an vast eternity of ugliness.

We took mescaline we had gotten from
your cousin living back out on the reservation.
Laying there passing back the wine
you told me how the desert was alive,
how it had been swallowing you your whole life.
You told me that the dryness and the heat
had consumed you, burnt you through until
you couldn’t bear to be yourself anymore.
The scorching heat overcame you and you told me
there had been no choice but to become the desert.
I had only been in the southwest two months,
but I saw it, although I was untouched.
You had grown here, you said,
wilting to ash together with the desert.

The mescaline had me by the throat and
I saw you from dust to dust.
I saw you at one with the desert.
You were beautiful amongst the
red and ochre blood of the sand
and at once I wanted to melt to ash
and burn into the desert alongside you.
I told you and you laughed and I laughed
and we made love to the heat
and to the sweat driven
out from underneath our pores,
inflamed by the drugs and
the inescapable heat.
The room was aflame and
the great desert was alive
and ripping at us
through the open window
with claws of heat that
slashed at our backs.

I awoke and you were tying your shoes.
Just like that, the fever had broken,
and already you could feel
autumn coming in with its swathes
of chilled air sweeping across the plains.
I had been in love those two weeks.
With the sun and the dust and the ash
and the desert and all of it being one
with you. As it all collapsed around me
I felt saddened at its loss.
You were out the door
and the summer was over.
I moved back east where the
winter came faster and colder
and the desert was
of a different kind.

we used to take the kayak
down the river
behind our house
to play tricks in
the mud of the *******
and with more grace than I
thought achievable
you would cartwheel
past the highway bridge
that served as boundary
set by our parents
and you would laugh
and I would laugh
and the whole
******* world
would laugh till
dinner time
when we'd trudge in
mud swept and weary
smiling and happy

now
I can't touch the ****** kayak
it's overgrown with vegetation
and nest to dead reptiles
while older
but still graceless
I stand on our dock
thinking about childhood
seems rushed
like watching from
one of those cars
on the bridge flashing by
looking down and
then backwards
at two kids playing in mud
you're moving into real life
and me
dragged not far behind

I don't even know if you
still remember
that horrible *******
or those endless family dinners
but I do
and somehow
we both made it
you always three
and a half
steps ahead
of me
so thank you
maybe you weren't so bad
after all

The touch of the woman is
the only thing that brings
you down from the cliff.
Hopped up on junk
or bummed out on bars,
or in them,
but, boy oh boy,
here she come round the corner.
And soon you're
seeing fields of
flowers --all swanky in
the wind-- see those hips
shake and dance?
see those lips twist and curl?
There she is.
And your mouth is dry and wide.
And your hands are
sweaty and shaking
And your eyes are static and cold.
And you're seeing gold
for the first time in weeks.
God, isn't she a sight for sore eyes
and a feel for your blistered hands.

I create poetry
by the car crashed juxtaposition
of thought and language.

I create poetry via metaphor,
metonymy, a slight wit.

I create poetry by the
beating and bastardization
of word until the line
breaks just right.
It never truly does.

You create poetry
in your every movement.

You create poetry in the
interaction and absolution
you carry within every waking
moment.

You create poetry only
by opening your beautiful
eyes each morning as
the sun rises eagerly
to see you.

You create poetry.

This, my pale
imitation.

It's got to be the woman
she's driving you crazy buddy
she's riding you right up
the wall
you gotta get out buddy
you gotta abandon that ship
she ain't worth it
you see those gray hairs?
they're growing in fast
all that stress
it's killing you
not to mention
your writing's been ****
since she came in your life
you know that?
people upstairs talking nonsense
as if you lost it
your touch
your mind
something's lost they say
everyone's talking about it buddy
she's gotta go
it's her or us
you know the consequences
don't you?
we need you in this
one hundred percent
what's it gonna be?
what's it gonna be buddy
you gonna let some
***** with nice legs
cute little pair of ****
ruin everything we built
together? huh?
no no
you know better than that
you'll get that **** together
won't you?
you've been writing ****
since she came around
they're all saying it buddy
you don't even come out anymore
she's got you locked away
like some circus animal
you're no circus animal buddy
are you?
you're a ******* hero
stop messing around
with this broad
stop letting her get you down
you're one of us
you've always been one of us
and you're gonna stay
one of us
but you've been writing ****
and we think you mighta
lost it

you ain't lost it
have you?

My father always
taught me to
pick my battles,
physical
or otherwise.
To choose
very wisely
what exactly was,
and was not,
worth fighting for.

Years later
I still struggle.
My eyes are black
and swollen
while my father
sits back, laughing
in his sales pitches and
stock options,
bartering cubicles for
candy bars.

"Keep it up, son"
he says,
"keep it up.
You’ll
win one,
eventually.
Keep blowing chances
and closing doors,
don't worry,
you'll grow up
eventually."

Yet I’m still here.
Street cornered with
broken bones
and gutted pride,
late nights spent
throwing fists at
passing shadows.

the soft smell of spring
sweeps through on the breeze
flirting with the senses
invigorating
inviting
holding close memories
forgotten feelings long erased
growing old under the setting sun
lost in the sentiments of the quickly passing afternoon
such a sight to behold
all that is lost might again be renewed
reminiscing
regretting

rising in the wind
sailing towards eternity
and falling towards inevitability
the golden ship of youth sails by
coasting in the waters of opportunity
sinking in the swamps of time
the roots have grown
planted
safe and secure
into middle-class
middle-aged mediocrity
no lofty longing of dreams unreachable
no sweet determination to reach the destination
only the reality of a life
once loved
now lost
pragmatic and practical

that golden ship is nearly out of sight
those wings of wax can no longer fly me to the sun
I cannot see the sun
cannot feel the thrill of flight
only the fear
and the fall
I cannot see the goal
because the trials stand too tall

and now the ship is gone
and the roots are solid
there is no living left to be done
only lessons to be learned from the mistakes of the past
and the hope that they do not become the future

but alas
the sun has now set
and darkness is upon us
so sleep now
and wake to see what tomorrow may bring

Walk up the street
and put a bullet in my brain,
right there, bang.
This is what we wanted!
Look at the excitement.
This is what we wanted.
See how it jumps up that barrel?
See how it pops and clicks?
Look at the excitement,
It's all for kicks. We're all for kicks.
A wonderful experience.
Splitting hairs into my left temporal lobe,
pushing through the dermis, squeezing
through the skull --oh, that tingles a little,
I must admit--
before finally sticking to
my primary auditory cortex.
My oh my, what a finish.
Anticlimactic, just as I deserve.
Appears that there is an
irony in everything I do.
I finally don't have to hear it anymore,
there's a bullet blocking me. Over and
over, but no more. No longer able to
hear you say those things you said
and my body collapses on the corner
where you told me you wanted me to die.
And I told you that what you were
would not happen again.
One promise I will keep.

I used to eat dinner with his family.
I would drive over there,
once I had a car, and have a
meal prior to going out. I never enjoy
eating with another set of parents.
Each has their own rituals,
habits, structures around which
they sit down together.
I was an interloper. No one noticed
the awkwardness but me,
perhaps, but in my eyes it was palpable.
His mother didn’t work.
She was a mild-mannered woman
who cared for her children
because she realized that was what
one was to do. She was the
one who would pick us up from
concerts in her Mercedes SUV
and take us home before we could
drive. Or to the movies. She
didn’t mind if it was rated R.
She was a hero for that. His father
was a businessman. I didn’t know him
very well. I shook his
hand when we were older because
men do that. I don’t think he
minded me. His little brother was four
years younger. He was my
savior at dinner because he didn’t
understand the regulations.
The slurp of his spaghetti kept the
tension light. After the accident
I only ate with them once more.
It’s hard to associate with people
when the mutual interest is gone.
Especially with the guilt choking
down any conversation starter
in my throat. I didn’t speak much
that last dinner. I tried very hard
not to spill on my suit. I was the
interloper still. No one noticed the
guilt but me, perhaps, but in
my eyes it was palpable.
The brother didn’t slurp his spaghetti.
The tension choked in my throat
and I think I started crying.
No one spoke.

I met a guy the other day
told me he used to be a writer
said he was pretty **** god
but he burnt out
couldn't do it
anymore
it was too boring and pretentious
he said
told me he went to
law school and
married a girl
from money instead
bought a nice house in the suburbs
him and his new wife did
said he's been oh so
much happier now

I wanted to tell him
he was full of ****
that if you used
to be a writer
than you are still a writer
or you never were
--unfortunately
our curse is of the sort
that carries no vaccine--
it bursts from you
one way or another
from the day you enter
this earth till the day
you leave it
some take full advantage
some pretend
and some never even realize
but it's there
all the same

I wanted to tell this
sorry sucker
how I really felt about his
law degree
and his talk on
this and that
wanted to crack
him across the jaw
you ain't no writer
never have been
you're a ******* fake
took a lot of
restraint not to hit him
but instead I shook his hand
said congratulations
smiled
and complimented him
on his new mercedes

there were old men
laying around the
pool
like cigarette butts
in an ashtray
burnt out and
diminishing as
their feet
dangle in the water
lapping up against
their knees
they talked about
the old war
the good war
back in a time when
there was war to
believe in
now what?

now they have their
feet in a pool
fat white skin
burning in the moonlight
while knobby knees
are canvas to varicose
veins and the occasional
scar

--oh this one from
surgery, this one
from a foxhole
dug out some
hillside near Salerno
sliced up the
side of my leg
nice and good, yessir,
killed the
**** guinea
though don't worry--

and they would hold
out their arms
to explain how
they held those old
standard issue springfield's
while arthritis shook
that imaginary
rifle to the point
of danger but
they never noticed
leaning in to stare down
the sights
aiming carefully at
some elusive
foe across the pool

they would laugh at
how much they hated those
guns
they would laugh at
the insanity of it all
how young they had been
how old they were now
how much had changed
and how much hadn't
their wives were all gone
left widowed or divorced
all it seemed they had
was Tunisia or
Italy or that French
beach early morning in
1944

the world is a battlefield
for old men
with no
weaponry but old
stories caked in dust

walked along the beach
barefoot, blinded
by a sun that
refused to rise
and a past
that refused to set

the ethereal glow
of the twilight
burned violet
reflections off
of the ocean
and the sand

raised a hand
to cover the
glare of the
sun exploding
sprawling out
against the horizon

sun rays over the water
laid out toward
me like avenues
of heat and radiation
stretched out
in endless highway

or perhaps fingers
caressing
tendrils of light
that lover
you knew but
never touched

the violet sunrise
stretches over the ocean
lapping your feet
tearing at them
the beggar grasping
at the ankle, pulling

soon knee deep
the violet seeping
through
the shore recedes
as station to train
and the journey continues

waist deep
violets bleed to orange
and ****** red
the sun is up
yet the past still haunts
with failing eyesight
hindsight is still twenty twenty

and the water is cool
there is a
breeze from the sea
chest deep
the avenues open up
divide and collide

all roads
lead toward one destination
the tendrils on that golden hand
beckon me closer
who was that lover?
she once had a name

neck deep
and the sun is up so high
up so high
where are the clouds?
there was supposed
to be rain today

water is up to
the eyes and rising
failing eyesight
and hindsight remains
twenty twenty
unfortunately

but for the first time
it appears that
I can see
where I am going
as well as what
is behind

As I submerge
I feel the past close up
behind me
it bottles up as hot air
as the demon forever
clawing at my neck

exhale and exorcise

the sun sets violet
hewed with crimson
growing colder
the water gets deeper
reflections
through the waves

spears of violet
jab at seaweed
with failing eyesight
there is no past to see
there is no future
there is only the sea

saw his mother
while they buried him. her hair
--with sorrow as flint--
smoked and caught fire. the world began to
cave in up and around the swollen fist of regret that punched
through my stomach --the fire spread--
speared my gut with blame.
all the while
a cacophony
of strings and trumpets
cried parting and
a soul flew
on golden banners
towards heaven
those stone white graffitied gates.
--the fire grew too much to handle--
in agony I flailed and screamed.
rolled down tall mountains clawing at bone and dirt
and flesh. gilded chariots breaking free. shepherding the beautiful
from the leperous, riddled atrophy that controls the living.
the dying and the burning. how everything burns
dies. fire smoke guilt regret. oh sweet death.
death in the summertime. death in the
morning, the evening, death of
everything. always.

eyes open
--a crisp, cluttered autumn hillside--
fall back upon his mother
reality stricken and grave.
blink twice. refocus.
a tear falls from her face
followed by
one from
mine.

the fire is out.

we really ****** up this time, huh
--a quick chuckle--
figure it's all worth it in the end
take another drink
smile
I wish I could've killed the *******
my **** eye hurts
then again
what would that have done?
all in fun. all in fun

people are dying
souls are starving
without anything to survive on
while I get old
and fat
figure it's not worth it in the end
what ever is?
die young, kid,
save yourself
lord knows its better to be a martyr
for a fool's cause
than a used up old conformist
spitting and ******* himself
atop a retirement fund

wish I could've killed that *******
but then no more options
no turning back
and that's never worth it
oh well

seems we really
****** up this time
people are dying
watching 'em struggle
and strangle
no more soul
no more soul
nothing left in the tank
and wish I could've
killed that *******
but he got the best of me
and there are
kids dying somewhere
and there are
souls starving somewhere
take me instead
wish it would've helped
then again
what would that have done?
left them to mourn another one
all in fun. all in fun.

Dieu ait pitié de mon âme

Her knuckles are white
Clutched in agony
Against my thigh
The muscles in her arms
Contract and then
Expand
Over over over again
At a varied velocity
An unstable rhythm
Of quick short breaths
And exasperated ecstasy

Oh the savagery
I pull her over and mount
Eyes alight with adrenaline
A leg atop each shoulder
Depraved in the most
Lustrous of acts
Oh the savagery
She bites her lip as
Muttered obscenities
Float raggedly through
An instrumental
Accompaniment
Of muscle on muscle
****. ****. ****.

Shh
Don't ruin it

She is quite the specimen
All thighs and ***
A body meticulously
Toned by a lack
Of self confidence
From the view atop her
I almost feel pity
I almost feel sympathy
A hand grabs at my hair
Oh the savagery
She is gone
So far gone
It's a disgusting
Disease
This pleasure
Nails dig into my back
And she is mine
To abuse
I am her drug
And she is nothing
A helpless addict
She is mine to
Corrupt
Mine to destroy
She's begging
For it

In a pitiful display
Of heroism
And hedonism
I oblige her

Shh
Don't ruin it

The dress left little to dream, a stained red
her sable hair veiled a porcelain skin.
A body well-toned to beauty's visage,
clinging to its youth in gentle fervor.
She danced with eyes, aloof of the madness
She danced with lips, a smile never faded.

The night felt as if it never faded,
despite that coming sunrise colored red.
With it comes a certain kind of madness:
that furtive creep and crawl under the skin,
that dark attacks all good sense with fervor,
silent beneath a cool and calm visage.

How I gazed on her elegant visage!
How she seemed to glow and never faded!
That way she danced, enthralled in sweet fervor,
twisting, turning hips below a flash of red.
How I wished a taste of that supple skin!
Temptation leading, leaning toward madness.

How hard it may prove to resist madness,
quick, short glances break a stoic visage.
The blood runs warm beneath my pale, clenched skin.
The space around her blurs, faces faded,
till nothing exists but that flaming red.
Hands convulsing in maddening fervor.

The hotel room shakes, same violent fervor,
With naught to do but give in to madness.
The bets are all off when the bull sees red!
Screams painted mute on smile-less visage.
All drowned out, all of everything faded
aside from the taste of porcelain skin.

The sheets peeled off slowly like shedded skin.
Quiet specimen, amidst the fervor,
lays unmoving on the mattress, faded,
left without signs of receding madness.
Sunrise reflected on a still visage:
Smooth porcelain, white now shadowed in red.

That desire for ripe skin, the madness
built in fervor, broke sanity's visage.
Till the smile faded, the dress stained red.

You find yourself alone at last
amongst the masses.
Out where the sunset sits
cross-legged in the sky,
staring downward through
the evening.
Such beautiful backdrop
for such ugly company,
all of it painted on canvas;
ochres, violets, varying
shades of autumn gray.
Find yourself bummed out
on the side of the curb,
sharing insults
with the passing traffic.
Even the devil has company,
but here you are alone,
sharing cigarettes and
cheap conversation with
the cement.

Night comes without urgency
and you are left in it;
bad breath and
a dense, colored
evening air that
burns the lungs
with coming winter.

The pub sign down the road
leans out from her window,
peering scornfully down
through her thick, iron grates.
Red and blue lights
blink disapproval against the pavement.
But maybe that rough pavement
can almost feel sweet
to the touch.
Maybe that rough pavement
can be soft; a woman's curve,
if you get it just right.
The old beer bottle
leans in and tells
you a terrible secret
before putting his cap
back on, strolling
off into that setting sun.
Skipping rocks
off an ocean of rubble
and asphalt
before they careen
into the grass.

Even the devil has company,
but sometimes it is
not so bad to be alone.

I'm sorry for the
way this is playing out.
It seems like
this road
is all too familiar;
only a matter of time
till we crash and burn
with the rest.
I'm a little scared
we break a little more
with each crash,
each failure,
each missed opportunity.
It isn't easy to keep up.
I wish dearly that it was.
I keep thinking that
it's better to jump ship
then to drown again,
but I keep sailing and sinking,
struggling to stay afloat.
But we get so mad
at each other,
so terribly mad,
and I hate it.
--even though you're
cute when you're angry--
But we yell,
and fight, and say
those terrible things,
and for a moment
I hate you.
I hate you, and all those
words you say,
as cruel and cold as you
can be.
They pile up
and I swear that this is it,
god as my witness.
It's the end.
Then your cute
freckled face
whispers I miss you,
soft into the speakers,
and for some reason,
despite everything else,
I still can't help
but smile.

It creeps in through the windows
and through the vents. Through the eyes,
and through the tongues, and through
the ears, perhaps, but always
through the eyes and always the tongues.

It creeps in through the words and
the mouths they arise from,
—always in whisper,
right below the earlobe,
with warm, tickled breath—

It creeps in through you and the
death is cruel and the death is
fair and the death is always eternal.
The death is cold and it is calculated
but it is always full of passion,
pulsing in the veins till the very moment
the heart comes to a stop.

It is love in the bathroom stalls.
It is love in the beat-down bars where the
beat-down people drink their lukewarm beer.
It is love in the truck bed on the side of
some unnamed, midnight mile down I-95.
It is love in the worst way.
It creeps in and it kills you,
and it kills you, and it kills you.
Each death a little different, but
death all the same.

In the morning there she is.
She’s making coffee, or in the shower,
or headed to work.
You’re looking for your pants,
or your shirt, or your wallet,
perhaps some combination of the three,

The whole time wondering
how the hell you’ll ever make it
out of this alive.

The night sky is
staring back at you.
You're checked out.
It's all gone to hell.
Bought a one way ticket
halfway to Shambhala.
The Christmas lights in
the tapestry above flicker
and fade out of conscious
thought. The moon hangs,
slack-jawed and silent,
shaking your shoulders as
you kneel into the pavement.
"Won't you leave me be?"
But no, he's calling the sun
and he's begging for help
"*******, stop it!"
They're driving you crazy.
The pavement is beautiful
against your cheek.
But here comes everything
You're flying on clouds,
and there is lights from the sun
and the moon is there, crying,
"Stop it, stop it!"
All you want is the pavement.
And your mothers screaming
through the glass. And the lights;
white and bright and cruel.
You only hear the pavement,
you only see the night sky;
staring back at you.

late nights
and hookah coals
headlight horizons
as cars pass
the interstate
onto endless
destinations
unaware of the
brief intersection
of existences
silver corrolla
flashed and gone
deep thought
on life
and existence
causing problems
i'd rather not
resurrect
stick to the
embers of
the coal
the smoke trailing
into everything
or nothing
and the moon's
half lidded stare
all coming
together
some semblance
of harmony
until distant
sounds from the
road
overwhelm
the peace
and it's back
to thoughts
on tomorrow
and the next
and the next
how I am supposed
to survive or ******
or succeed
even just get
home
it's all crazy
all madness
please please
just leave
me
be
for now

It is the flaw of humankind to feel love.
Once upon a time I didn’t
believe in it. Once upon a time
I was safe from it. Escape has
proven to be difficult, however,
our programming is wire tight.

It is the flaw of humankind to feel love.
Oh, how our arguments screamed
into the coming morning
as I barred you from your own doorway,
incapacitated with an irrational passion.
You rolled your eyes as your
roommate let you in.

It is the flaw of humankind to feel love.
I remember your flaws well.
I could paint them beautiful across canvas
from only details in my mind.
I remember you:
from the freckles dotting your cheeks
to the horse shaped birthmark,
galloping across your inner thigh.

It is the flaw of humankind to feel love.
It is a flaw of my own to have lost it.

Having *** in
a car is the most
dispassionate
of locations.
You drive up late,
wait on the curb
for her to sneak
out past her
overprotective and
well intentioned parents.
She gets in,
keep the music high
and the voices low,
any conversation at
this point is
simply to break
the slight awkwardness
of what you both know
is about to happen.

Park in a
shady lot
with no light posts.
You can see an
elementary school
down the street,
buses and pick up lanes,
in a few hours they
will scamper around
like rats
but tonight there
are no witnesses.
Tonight there is nothing
but the back seat
you climbed into,
music still loud enough
to dissuade
any personalization
of the situation.
It is ***** and cheap.
--a personal
preference--
She is nothing but a
quick fix.
She gets on top,
moans a little
as you slide in.
The seatbelt buckle
digs deep into your
back,
but you don't mind it,
this wasn't meant
to be comfortable.

You just want this over with.
She looks at you
and smiles,
you look away.
All of this
is shameful,
but a necessary evil.
There is a decadent
beauty
that surrounds the
cheapest and
rawest of pleasures,
that glory in the gutter.

*** in a car is the most
dispassionate of locations.
You drop her back off,
don't stick around to see her
caught by her
waiting father.
Her shirt is on wrong
and her hair is ******.
Not your problem.
You head home,
keeping the music up,
thinking about anything else.
You don't even know
who she is,
just some quick fix,
just another wednesday night.

You try to believe that
it is better that way.

broke my promise
the one I made
sitting there
on that park bench freezing
sharing coffee
conversation
naive and smiling
you looked at me
up from two weeks
of abuse
I could never understand you
how you laughed at my jokes
how you flashed eye contact
as you poured a second sugar
I could never understand you
it was cold
and you had a white scarf
tucked over your jacket
good god I loved
how you looked and
you told me how
proud you were
how we were in this together
and how
your acting was going well
I did my best to listen
I was in cold sweat
and shivering
and you talked on your
audition the next day
some part
some play
I can't remember
--good god why can't
I remember--
all I do is remember anymore
the way you would walk
the way you would talk
how you would just go
on and on
and the world would seem bright
again if
only for seconds
and somewhere
deep inside
under the cold
something frozen
would thaw in me
and I can still see that smile
why did I ever let you
leave that park bench
we could have sat there forever
hands folded and freezing
you in that white scarf
and that white smile
good god I loved
the way you looked

you talked and talked
marvelous things
you were going to be an actress
and I was going to stop drinking
we'd buy an apartment
on the east end of town
maybe
a house with a yard
maybe
a boat on the sea
you could paint that picture
so nice
and we'd sit there and imagine

oh
just to have you
on that park bench
again

You've been walking
in the same space
at the same pace
for days it seems,
or is it years now?
It makes no difference–
too afraid to pinch
and perhaps wake up,
or even worse
realize there's nothing to
wake up from.
It does not feel like real life
so far from home, far
from the tangibles that
once played strict boundaries
on your existence.
Every step you take
the dream becomes the truth
and your old life
fades from reality toward
memory–
still hoping to wake
and be home again,
back in an old city,
an old time,
with old friends–
maybe a beach in Fiji
with Kristine Kochanski
laid out beside you.
Seems like thats
how things should be.
Seems like thats the
reality
you had in store,
not tucked away
under smokescreen skies,
alienated and alone.
New friends and
New places
that are beginning to lose
that New car smell.
Pinch me please.
Pinch me,
you are asking
harder, harder,
again, again–
"Once more,"
you're begging.
This can't be it
*******,
it can't be all
there is,
you'll wake up
you have to
one of these days.
Or is it years
now?

sixteen
what was it like
again?
becoming infinite
on that couch
at her parents house
what was her name
again?

lost at sea
look out
behind the aft
is that sixteen?
almost off the horizon now
but this ship don't turn around
no no no
here comes twenty
on track to forever
rough waves and storm
can't remember the calm
no sign of shore

here comes twenty
think I'm seasick
throw me overboard
seasick and sorry
wish it would
slow the **** down
just for a second
look at sixteen
what was it like
again?

After ***, she fell asleep
and I laid there for some time
thinking about all the collisions
and coincidences that led me
up to this point.
She was a beautiful girl
--blonde hair blue eyes,
you know the deal--
She liked older men,
she had said
while we were speaking
at the bar.
That's when I knew it was
a good thing. That's when
I knew it was good that
I had rented a motel room
so close.
Old men have baggage,
the older you are
the more **** you carry
around like stones.
Older you are, the more ****
everyone else has
to deal with;
especially young
beautiful girls
at a dive bar off of the interstate
hanging around old men.
Especially the old men preying
on younger women at a bar
close to their motel room.

Girls who like older men
are either too naive
to know any better,
or too desperate to give
a ****.

I quietly got up
walked toward the sink,
avoiding carefully the
clothes and wine glasses
that lay all
strewn about the room.
--****** motel--
The ones that still
have the old keys
with that big hole where
the key chain goes.
The water pressure
was terrible
but I ran my face under
the water.
I thought maybe
she must just be naive,
she can't be anything past
twenty or so,
**** still perked and eager
and her thighs still tight.
Not for long,
I would imagine,
not with that inclination
towards older men.
That baggage will weigh
it all down, down, down.

I wish I could
have helped her.
I wish I could have
made her realize
she doesn't much need
the baggage.
--But how do you expect
a lion to tell an antelope not
to get too close?--
You don't.
So I turned off the faucet
and laid back in the bed;
just another old lion
full with thoughts of
the young, eager antelope
and the shame of an
empty victory.

the first rays
bleed through
our old quartered
window panes
--slightly yellowed with
old age and neglect--
it casts a golden light
across the room
falling on top of the bed
as we once did
young lovers eclipsed in
passion too strong to control
muscles tensed with love
as shadows roar like lions
in back arched ecstasy
across the canvas wall
there's no passion
anymore
only the golden
light from
the window
as it falls
on an old man
alone with his shadow

i poured a drink
and told my friend of the old maid
who used to come every other
monday to the
house where i grew up
and how beautiful
she was
and how i would clean my room
the night before she came
just to impress her
and she would come in
all those bright monday mornings
and she would smile
ask to vacuum
in her broken, thickly
accented english
and i would smile back
hoping that despite
her Portugese heritage
her broken english
and her son my age
that there was hope
for me

--he smiled at this
and we laughed
at the amazing
fantasies of
men and boys--

and i told him again
how beautiful she was
though i don't think he really
understood exactly
she came for years
until one bright
monday morning
after she smiled and
asked to vacuum
i returned to
find my wallet
emptied
and my laptop as
missing as she was

--i informed him
it was the first
and only time
a woman
had broken my heart--

for years after that woman
has plagued my thoughts
from time to time
wondering where
she could possibly be
alive or dead
and how many
more poor, starry
eyed nine year olds
she had broken
since me

me and my friend smiled
and poured up another
drink
this one's for you
my beautiful thief

there was a hand holding my head
an angel, I'm sure
the reflection in the water was blurry
and my eyes
caked with tears
threatening to fall
the taste in my mouth was
of blood and *****
as if death itself
had called my name
but the angel simply rubbed
my head and swore it
would be alright

woke up the next afternoon
in the bathroom
almost catatonic
with a ****** headache
and bad breath
spit
******
grabbed a glass of
water from the tap
and realized
that despite
the death that hangs over
every bad decision
like breath in arctic air
the angel wasn't lying

you feel so in love
until you realize
that everyone *****
and everyone smells
and you can't do it
it's not even the *******
that's the kicker
love is beautiful in
a vacuum
but in real life
it's an ugly terrible thing
filled with missteps and
half truths covered in
jealous accusations
I can't love you
it's so irrational
you're too beautiful
you flirt too much
you talk too much
hell you talk at all
I need the girl in the
glass case
the one tucked away in
the castle tower
where I can keep her safe
and can stay safe
from her
because
how can you love
something with the
power to ruin you

the past is a mess
for most people
mistakes and missteps
missed opportunities
and meaningless decisions
coagulate into a mass of
regret and indecision
at where you have came
and that separation from where
you want to be

You cannot cheat death;
splitting up most of these
little ripples and movements
into a terrible uselessness.
You cannot cheat death;
slipping endlessly through
the cracks towards you.
You cannot cheat death;
but sometimes you can beat it
in the cold, stone-gray mornings,
struggling down pavements
to the corner cafe,
all just to have a seat
and just to have a smoke;
looking across the plaza
at all the young little girls
tucked into their colorful scarves,
their big coats swallowing them,
hair blowing in the wind and
faces red from the cold
and those little fur boots...

They can’t be a day over twenty,
those girls, with all legs
and teeth and attitude,
everything pointing upward.
Youth is a wonder
once it is gone from you.

Is it not enough simply to exist?
Perhaps not. Perhaps the whole
scam of it is just too much
to truly ever be happy.
You understand existentialism,
deep down you accept it,
but you never really think about it,
can't ever truly let it get to you.

"Meaningless... Well then, what now?"
“Nothing," is the response,
"Nothing at all."

Nothing but the smoke,
trailing off in the early morning chill,
lifting up with the wind
up over the balconies, and
the coffee, and me and those
sweet young women layered up
in their wool hats and little gloves,
passing lazily by my table
without so much as a glance.

I write fiction because I realized
from a young age that
I was a splendid liar,
with these pretty little lies
I ******* all nice and tight.
Slowly they became bigger
as I became bigger
and they became ugly
as I became ugly,
and still they came,
with more momentum now.
They grew thorns, hurting the
people who believed them.
I put them on the paper
so they could look beautiful
again.
Still they were false.
Still they sat in my gut
like an unwanted child,
a weight I couldn't help
but carry.
So here, another lie
for me to tie.
See, see how pretty it is?

continues
all around
as you take a step
back
out of the frame
grab your drink
take a sip
sit down
slow down
the lights flash
the bass rattles
your jawline
everyone moving
and loving
and spinning
spitting breaking
shouting *******
--oh, the madness--
and you're struck out
sitting in the corner
as that madness
moves and loves and spins
spits breaks shouts *****
caresses and kills
you can't seem to
get into it anymore
not like you used to
these old legs can't
bear it like they used to
the old heart can't
take it like it used to
everything is all everywhere
while all you can do
is grab another ***** tonic
another one
one more
and just shut up
this is real life
if you're not with it
you're against it
so *******
and **** your poetry
you aren't special
you aren't anything
anyone will read
***** selfish *******
the blur cycles around
you don't want to step in
but i'm right
i'm always right
so step back in
that drink
is almost empty
anyways

I was on the
down and outs
no money
no girl
and she was
empty as
my wallet
slightly crazed
with a cute face
and the *** was
loud
and distracting
for awhile
but it was empty
too

and I started to
wonder if
this was it
if this was where
all those valiant
dreams of chivalry
and white knights
ended up
in the back of
her two door volvo
pacing thrusts
with the radio

I got out of there quick
told her to find a nice
boy with a nice house
and a nice dog
told her to quit smoking
that pack a day
told her to go back to school
told her a hundred things
she never heard

so now I'm on the
down and out
with no money
no girl
and no ***

here's to chivalry

under layers of dust
wise men in caves
break bones and bread
slaving at a history
no one ever knew
striving for a salvation
no one ever knows
or perhaps only for peace
left instead cursing
the cold and
the Christ who never came

they look at old San Pedro
outside Gethsemane asleep
dreaming of the God
in the flowers
where he lay
by Christ weeping
dreaming of the God
in a lover's touch
so sweet so gentle
yet gone so far away
they see how he dreams
of the God in the heavens
oh, to hold his hand
oh, to kiss his face
what wonder it must be
while Christ lay weeping
and the pharisees come
forever closer

thirty pieces of silver
bought the Son of God
for a bargain

wise men in caves
perhaps sit silent
now and forever
under layers of dust
no longer cursing
no longer breaking
only sitting
dreaming of God
like Peter in the flowers
like Christ weeping
waiting for a way out
now we all sit silent
staring upwards
searching for answers
in a Christ who never came