I'd like to think that she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"

As she sits on the corner of her bed,

Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.

I imagine her,

Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.

Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,

Then looking to her class ring,

Made entirely of imitation ingredients,

Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.


When she was still a friend of mine,

I never saw her wear make up,

I never saw her show off in tight jeans

or low-cut tees.


But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,

Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,

Next to the side door

that leads to his sister's side room.

The make up she wears

is from the night before.

It's skewed and shows evidence of running,

Like a wasted watercolor.


I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,

And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.

I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,

He's in grey sweatpants,

He's wearing a black tank top,

With a Confederate flag backdrop,

With two barely dressed babes looking ******

in the foreground.


His hair, unwashed and greasy.

He rubs his belly,

And bears an idiot grin

on his face.

Looking like he just learned how to smile

at this pace.

"Did it feel good?"

feel good.

After he asks, he scans her body,

Beginning at those crimson toes,

And Ending at that clumsy hair.

Every second he scans,

He still wears that drawn-on

Idiot grin.


I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.

Of my warnings and prophesy.

Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,

Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.

And finally reach the only thing she has on,

A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.

A t-shirt, when given by him,

It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".


Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,

During last night's expedition.

He still paid her back with a morning

one-sided session.

"It felt good" she says.

In reference to the ten minute *******,

When her body was strummed and plucked,

Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.


As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,

On a bed that is six days *****,

While he is grinning,

Being everything but wordy.

I'd like to think she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"

Anna,
the young lions won't want you
forever.

Eventually you are going to
get tired
of keeping it tight,
of batting your eyes,
of applying the gloss just right.

Anna,
what will you do when the invitation beds
come to an end?

Eventually the lions will settle,
while you gather cobweb and callus,
while you smoke cancer and wallow in cellulite.

Anna,
find a boy who makes you feel like the sun.

Ultimately,
he's the only one who can save your soul
from all the crimes you've done.

I am a miserable ****.

Traffic jam thoughts.
Aimless speech.
Fever dreams,
coffee with no cream,
love with no pulse,
alone at restaurants,
            at grocery stores,
            at parties.

I have no identity.

Shifting shape, black to blue,
trading girls, red hair for Persian skin,
parents and gods,
politicians and lost purpose mobs,
all asking me to be sacred,
                            to be loving,
                            to be trusting,
                            to be active,
                            to have no spine.

All I want is a bit of my own time.

A grenade of change,
to end the coagulation of my brain,
to leave me hungry for anything
other than me,
didn't somebody say I was promised something?
                                            I was going somewhere?
                                            I was unique?

I am the same miserable ****,

As every other miserable ****.

The ******* that cut you off on Highway 62,

The person that complained about too many pickles,
on his precious fast food,

The boy yelling at his baby sister for getting too much attention,

The girl sexting your boyfriend,

The boy sexing your girlfriend,

The generation divorcing everyone it knows so it can fall in love with

itself.

All different,
in exactly the same way.

Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
                   Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
            trafficjamthoughts. traffic. Traffic Jam Thoughts. Thoughts.
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Jam.
thoughts. traffic. trafficjam. trafficjam. traffic jam thoughts.traffic.
traffic jam. traffic, traffic, traffic. I am a miserable ****. Traffic jam.

Sit by my side,
talk me through,
let your sweet breath
caress my swollen eyes.

I select you.

Tell me about your past,
talk me through,
each misstep and lie,
the cadence makes it fine.

Curl up next to me,
talk me through,
make sure my heart beats,
but don't let me fall victim to dreams.

Call me your best friend,
talk me through,
if I show weakness, tangle about hair,
please don't call me handsome.

If we make it past night,
if you talked me through,
I'll make you breakfast
and you will make laughter.

Will you select me too?

Let's keep the trade even,
talk me through,
I'll distract you, you'll distract me,
from all the old lovers that proved themselves typical.

I swam in your ocean, Anna.
I drank the salt of your skin
until it gave me hallowed sickness.

I told you,
I was never good at staying anyone's friend.
I spent three weeks convincing you I'd try.
When I didn't succeed, why did you act surprised?

You keep shifting shape.
And that isn't fair.

I got tangled in your weeds, Anna.
I struggled and howled,
you talked with warmth, ran fingers in my hair.

I told you,
I wouldn't live past thirty-five,
you said,
I wouldn't make it to twenty-five,
I told you,
I was evil,
you told me,
you were eviler.
I told you,
I was evilest,
you said,
**** superlatives.

I saw you drown yourself in yourself, Anna.
Wallowing in the cold wind
of one demented abecedarian.

You keep shifting shape.
And that isn't fair.

I told you,
to keep your feet moving,
you said,
I needed to stop talking,
I told you,
I was ready to marry you,
you said,
I would never escape my
ex-girl collection,
I told you,
Anna, if I can't have you
you're going to destroy you,
you said,
you'd like to see you try.

Let your waves crash against me,
let your wind carve,
I will say I love you,
until one of us dies.

There are only two ways to truly know someone: sleep with them or take them bowling.
Phoenix Aime was the woman of my dreams. So, I took her bowling.

Paid for a game. Rented shoes. Got the little, sticky bracelet thingy that said Slippery Joe Lanes.
That way if we got in some sort of accident on the way home,
the guy at the morgue could identify us as bowlers. Anyway, here's the bulleted list of what I knew about Phoenix up to that point:

• She looked like Diane Keaton circa 1972
• She talked with great pretension concerning craft beer
• She only patronized two restaurants: Denny's and IHOP
• She was eight years older than me
• She kissed my sister once on a dare
• Her shoe size was 7
• She was perfect or a near synonym

The bowling alley was empty save a World War II vet in a wheelchair and his wife at lane six,
and they were barely there. Country music played over the loud speaker. And I felt cozy. Predictable. Like a payment plan on the QVC.

That was until Phoenix said, "I forgot something. I'm going to go talk to Mack real quick."
Mack worked the front desk, according to his name tag. Talk to Mack. She just talked to Mack. Mack was sleeping with her. I untied my shoelaces. Oh, Mack, love your red polo with blue tiger stripes.
I pulled my sneakers off. Oh, Mack, I love it when you dip your finger in nacho cheese and feed it to me. Slid my right foot into bowling shoe. Halfway in with the left, and my socked foot struck something plastic. A stick of tiny deodorant. Like unsavory truck-stop-to-truck-stop deodorant. Oh, Mack, I love it when you deodorize -- so hard. Pull the strings tight on the left shoe. Oh, Mack, rub the deodorant until your underarms are SO CHALKY AND WHITE.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yeah, what do I look like something's wrong?"

She carried a seafoam green bowling ball with a ****** Mary insignia. "It looks like you triple-knotted your shoes there."

And I said something dumb like, better safe than sorry.

"Sorry about leaving you all alone. Mack holds onto my ***** for me," she said.  I bet he does. "I hate talking to that guy." What? "He's a vegan."

Now, at that time in my life, I was a vegan. And had planned some stirring remarks about the processing of sweet little piggies into cancerous hot dog machines on the way to pick her up. Thought she would think me full of passion, "on fire" for a cause, you know? The wise thing would have been to say, oh well, I'm a vegan. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"

"You know serial killer's get a last meal before they're executed, right?"

"Right." Where the hell is this going?

"Well, have you ever heard of someone on death row requesting a last meal that didn't involve some sort of animal product? Gacy had buckets of chicken, Bundy had a medium rare steak, even uh, ****, what was his name, McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh he had two pints of mint chocolate ice cream. Dairy."

"I'm not sure how this refutes veganism."

"Nobody is a vegan for their last meal. Nobody. I'm not going to subscribe to a diet that I can't follow until the very end. Live every day like your last, that's my motto."

"That's your motto." I said. To be a great listener, just repeat the last three or four things anyone says to you and raise your eyebrows a little bit. (Examples: "My dog died." -- "You're dog died.", "I never ate breakfast burritos again." -- "Never ate it again.", "I love you." -- "You love me.")

Over Phoenix's shoulder, over by lane six, the wife wheeled the World War II vet up to the lane. And he tossed the ball. Good team, I thought. Want to know someone take them to the bowling alley.

Phoenix removed a glove from her pocket. She had her own ball. Brought her own badass, jet black bowling gloves. And if her carnivorous tendencies hadn't already put a ***** in the Golden Days of Josh and Phoenix, that glove did.

She typed her name first on the scoring computer. Didn't ask if I wanted to go first. That's fine. Approached the lane, three fingers inside the ****** Mary. She brought her bony arm back with the grace of a ballerina tucked away stage right in the shadows. Mary cut from grace slid down the lane with a spin.

Strike. I couldn't really see the pins from my angle. But I recieved a transmission via the "yes" and arm pump. That was two marks against her, and I was going to three. I'd call it strikes, but well, the whole bowling skew.

Here's a bulleted list of what a "yes" and arm pump immediately taught me:

• She takes bowling serious.
• If you take bowling serious, when do you relax?
• She'd never relax.
• My life would be tucked shirts, matching belts and shoes.

For six frames, I picked up fours and sevens. Phoenix, though, nothing but strikes. I threw a gutter on frame seven. Like a normal human being, I shrugged. Made a face out the sides of my mouth. Kept it light.

"I thought you were a grown *** man," Phoenix said.

"Me too."

What happened next, I willed. I'm not god or anything like that. At the time, just cosmicly ******.
Her step stuttered. 7-10 split. "Mack!" she screamed. "Floors are slicker than a used car salesman's hair."

From across the alley,
"Sorry, Phoenix, baby. I'll bring you some nachos. That make up for it?"

"Ain't gonna knock down two pins is it?"

"So, uh, no nachos then?"

"Actually, go ahead and bring those."

She lined up. Back straight. Legs together. She rolled her neck. "You're about to see how it's done."

And I didn't. She broke it down the middle. Field goal. In that moment, that holy moment, I was knowledge plateau. Vindicated.

For about 10 seconds.

Mack swaggered over, nachos in hand. "Phoenix, sweetie, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"No, that's why I asked."

"Just give me the nachos."

"Ah crap." Mack had gotten his pointer finger in the nacho cheese.

"Let me see it."

And right there, right in front the ****** Mary seafoam green bowling ball, she slurped the cheese off his finger."

Frame seven, a good as time as any to call it a match. The wife of the World War II vet kissed her husband's forehead. Handed him a ball. As I walked by, hand on shoulder. "Struck gold, dude."

every time we fall in love,
they call it trite,
a false fairy tale.

love is weak.
and weak ain't trending no more.

every time we speak our mind,
they tell us to shut up,
too young to have an opinion.

the youth is unreliable,
too many fresh hormones.

every time we stand up straight,
they cross us,
crucify us.

acquiescing is appropriate,
they gift certificates in frames for that.

every time we subscribe to a higher code of ethics,
they call us radical,
salivate, and spectate as we are torn asunder by lions.

love should never transcend national pride,
here it's guns, god, no homosexuals or mexicans all the time.

if i make a stand, and you make a stand,
and the dominoes begin to fall,

if i inspire a dozen, and you inspire a thousand,
the gears will grind, the tide will turn,

the lions will all be too full,
and
they surely will run out of nails,
before they've crossed every single one of us.

She, a cavernous champagne glass,
he, a weary pony, who ate the neighbor's grass--
her name Ms. Wesson,
his name Mr. Smith,
they died on a slow Tuesday--
and stop looking Wesson clan,
if looking for a lesson.

Mid-afternoon
midst a love bent 69
Mr. Smith and Ms. Wesson
committed ******-suicide--
Mr. Smith turned from a man
back into a stain,
Ms. Wesson turned from a woman
back into a chain.

And the artist-in-neighborhood did rejoice,
subject matter for a painting to hang above
his licorice-colored memorial of a prisoner dove.

And the police did gossip,
was it love? was it *******?
What a fine piece of *** that could be living.

And it took the families two weeks to find out,
they wiped their feet on dead leaves,
daydreamt open caskets and planted juniper seeds.

Talk of another woman, talk of another man,
but God himself would tell you,
they were simply bored of each other's drugs,
they were simply bored of each other's barrels,
so, they barred each other from being,
and headed west on erosion's dime.

gurgle, gurgle,
groundcurrent unsettled,
moon unseen like stars
fever dreamed,
dissonance for the melody maker,
dissonance for the retired risk-taker,
dissonance for the hips of homewreckers.

civil, civil,
no minutes can afford the divide,
aside, to the crystal buildings and
the sky's sputtering cries,
compliments to your forehead's ****,
compliments to your forefather's rash,
compliments to your aforementioned crash.

the current, the current
rides hot and merciless along thigh,
dribbles down chins and nightgowns,
dries--a permanent badge of scattered life,
electroshock seeps from self-made holes,
electroshock seeps from smoldering bowls,
electroshock seeps from typecast roles.

volcano, volcano,
grumble and moan.

volcano, volcano,
clear cord and stroke.

volcano, volcano,
grieve me in ash.

volcano, volcano,
I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad.

swashbuckling kittens wallpaper -- cutlasses, eyepatches, royal blue bandanas --
lined the walls of the kitchen.

"you love it, don't you?" Mathilda asked. she poured me a glass of almond milk.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever. and ever. and ever.
fridge door open. it's sparse. a world weary McDonald's bag and a last chapter beer,
the only other tenants.

"it's neat," I said. don't care much for animals. don't hate them by any means,
but don't go out of my way for them. my analyst says it's Sparks, Oklahoma's fault.
see, when a boy, I had seven---no, eight kittens named Simba. the howl of the coyote
taught me about expiration dates. Had a hard time accepting total loss (e.g., eight Simbas).

"do you feel okay?" Mathilda asked. and I didn't. but I said,

"yeah, yeah. sorry about waking you up last night. just didn't think I could make it home."

"I noticed you slept perpendicular to the futon. with your sneakers on. interesting choice."

Mathilda can be funny. and the almond milk was good. and like I said, I could drink it with
her forever. the ceiling fan, though, rocked off-kilter. she had stray, sad balloons in orbit
around the fan. imagined the balloon with the red-lettered "BOO-YAH" entering the wake
of the wobbling blades. imagined the blades flying off one-by-one. imagined one striking
me in the head and freeing me of a hangover. imagined being in the back of the line outside
the gates of heaven, while St. Peter kept letting the hot, single girls cut in line.

"will you?" Mathilda repeated, I think.

"will I, what?"

"take a picture of me in front of the wallpaper."

"sure."

"sorry, I've taken like 30 selfies trying to get Grace to re-notice me.
starting to feel like a chronic masturbator."

"what do you mean?"

"well, you know, selfies are pathetic indulgences in narcissism. hell, they can be
necessary, as is the case this time, I assure you---but pathetic, nonetheless."

took the phone. Mathilda stood in front of the pirate kitten wallpaper.
she leaned forward. made a kissy face.

"do you have to do that?" I asked.

"don't bust my *****," she said, "just take the photo. I know what Grace likes."

the two broke up last week. Mathilda in her oh-yeah-wanna-run-off-with-ol-banana-***** fury
threw a ******* party with balloons (they were tethered to things at the time.
the dining chairs, cabinet doors, the wrists of guests, etc., etc.). I left early that night.
I'm straight and not very relevant. so, well, you get it.

"would you like some coffee too?" she didn't look up. with locust clicks she fingered
the screen of her phone, uploading the kissy face, pirate kitten wallpaper picture to
her Tumblr. I nodded.

at the party she bedded two skeletal, Sylvia Plath feminists. self-fulfilling prophecy.
she'd written about the then-fictitious scenario months ago on her blog.
Mathilda called me crying the following morning. between the
shame/guilt/self-pity wails, she advised, "don't ever be the third wheel in a threeway."
noted. she said the three had a silent, last breakfast before they left. and I said something
to the effect of, you didn't let them go near the oven did you?

the first droplets of coffee hissed as they struck the bottom of the ***.

"if only coffee were a woman," Mathilda said. "am I right?"

"if coffee were a woman, I'm afraid I'd still pour her into a fine porcelain cup and drink her."

"you're awful."

and I am. but she doesn't mind because I've been celibate for two years, and she's been
so successful it brings her down. off-setting penalties, the basis of our friendship. or maybe
it's the way we leave things where they fall or rise. natural resting places. Simbas. balloons.

when the brew idles I grab two cups. fill hers three-quarters full. she likes almond milk in it.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever, I swear. to the fridge. the ceiling fan
seems a bit louder. one-by-one the blades. and heaven. and St. Peter, the pervert.
gave the almond milk a shake.

"why you holding on to the McDonald's bag and the practically empty beer?
I think they're starting to smell."

she didn't answer. well, not right away, anyway. and I took that to mean they belonged
to Grace. natural resting places. so, I mix the almond milk into the coffee.

"I know I should throw it out. Grace doesn't even like McDonald's. Do you know what's
in that bag?"

"I don't."

"avocados."

"what?"

"yeah. one of her friends works there. just cut up some avocados for her."

what sacrilege. made me tired, you know? fast food avocados, selfies,
Sylvia Plath feminists, etc., etc. the ceiling fan sped up, for no reason, I think.
the balloons cast shadows over the dining table. and I could drink almond milk
with a lesbian forever. trust me. just not under those conditions. beeline for
the fridge. door open. snagged the bag of blacker-than-brown avocados
and the bottle of beer.

"stop. she could be back any day," Mathilda said.

and what I should of said was no. what I should have said was Grace,
for all intents and purposes, was dead. and what she was doing
was reusing a dead name. and reusing a dead name isn't a resurrection.
but what I said was, "okay." and I sat down under the ceiling fan.
my natural resting place. almond milk forever. and ever. and ever.

The first time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at Granny's Kitchen in Greensboro, North Carolina.

The waitress, a soft spoken white woman with her hair pulled back in a bun, had just dropped off my plates --- a simple mix of scrambled eggs, two pieces of greasy bacon, and a short stack of pancakes. Now, no matter how cheap, I always feel like I'm cutting loose at breakfast places for the sheer abundance of plates. While I'm sure the eggs and bacon could have shared real estate, each component had its own china.

The waitress lingered at my table, her fingers fidgeting with straws in her apron. I made eye contact. Well, my eyes contacted hers; she was staring at my lips.

Sure I can't get you something to drink? she asked.

This was approximately the tenth time she'd made sure. She was uncomfortable that I had supplied my own beverage -- a Big Gulp. But even more than that, she was uncomfortable by the deep red stain taking over my lips. Contents of the Big Gulp: merlot, boxed.

(That is an unnecessary detail. I've only written it so I never do it again.)

Before Greg hopped up on a table and announced to the restaurant, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, blah, blah blah, I poured a copious amount of syrup on my pancakes. Then I moved the bacon to my pancake plate. In my experience, very little in this life is better than syrup on bacon.

I shut my eyes for that first bite, just like the commercials. The syrup dribbled a bit onto my beard, and when I opened my eyes, I discovered it had also landed on my shirt. I grabbed a napkin. Heard a chair slide backwards. I started with my beard, peering around the diner, making sure no one saw. I think I heard someone gasp. But I was busy, working that napkin then against my shirt. Jesus, I thought. My grandma, who's got a splash of the Parkinson's, could eat with more grace.

If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, a very official voice boomed behind me.

I turned around to see if I recognized him as one of those cuffed jean-sporting, wild plaid-loving NPR hosts. He wasn't one of those. He was a sunburn with mop hair in a black tank top and hemmed jean shorts. He did, however, have a cleft chin. That's actually worth noting. Don't see a lot of them these days.

I know you guys are busy, he said. I know that like me, you guys are probably broke as hell. I mean no offense Granny's, I love this place, but it ain't exactly four stars. Or three. Anyway, all I want from each of you is five dollars. If you ain't got five, give me four. Ain't got four, three. And so on.

He started with the stringy Japanese couple on the west side of the restaurant. Nobody really seemed scared, not the freckled brat in canvas sneakers, not the liver-spotted gentleman with a copy of that day's paper.

My old friend Jerome used to say that white folks are the only romantic criminals. He tacked it up to that whole Bonnie and Clyde crap. Greg, it seemed, was privy to that information, too. He smiled and thanked each person as he robbed them of a few presidents. The victims, smiling back, seemed to be thinking of their names tagged at the end of some newspaper dialogue. A few even gave more than he asked.

Here, take fifteen. Times will get better.

Aren't you just a charmer.

It was all very moving.

So he gets to me, and of course, I don't have any cash. I carry a debit and an arsenal of credit cards like a normal American. I don't know how he made it to me before running into this particular problem.

No, I don't have one of those iPhone card swipers, he said. Well, you gotta give me something.

I offered a gift card to Harold's Clothes for Men, it had like two bucks on it, but he wasn't interested.

What's your name?

Henry.

How much do you weigh?

Enough to keep me prohibited from most amusement park rides.

I like you, Henry. Well, let me ask you something. Have you ever loved a man? he asked, pointing his smudgy revolver just past my ear.

I shook my head no.

Me neither. I've always been curious, though. You been curious?

There was a time when I was thirteen -- Blake Hinton was changing after basketball practice -- and I remember thinking, that is an incredible chest. These lines just sprawled from his sternum, lines leading to these almond *******, and I specifically remember wanting to eat them like, well, almonds. But that hardly counts as curious. So, I said, No.

To which Greg responded: Get curious, boy. You're coming with me.


In the spirit of honesty, I was in a bit of a haze before Greg made me climb into his beat up Cavalier. Not just from the Big Gulp brimmed with merlot, no, I hadn't slept in two days prior to the whole gun-in-face incident. Reason being, I was, as Greg would say, broke as hell, and the rent was due. I stayed up both nights conspiring (and drinking). So, really I was pretty thrilled to be kidnapped away from the whole situation.

I had visions. I guess from the lack of sleep. Maybe they weren't visions, maybe just dreams, or fever dreams, I don't know. All I know is I blinked, and we were in the Appalachians. And there was a grey longbeard in the backseat rattling on and on about how change is easy, movement is easy; it's that whole nesting thing that takes courage and strength, blah, blah, blah. I told him to be quiet. Greg told me to get some sleep. I blinked.

We were in a karaoke bar in Madison, Tennessee. There was a gin and tonic in front of me. I took a drink. There was a water with lime in front of me.

Greg asked, Where did you go?

I told him, your dreams, trying to be cute. He turned and asked the bartender for a Yeager bomb. Reaching for the server in -- granted -- an overly dramatic gesture, I said, Make it two. We made it three. We made it four. Seven. Then some vague, but perfect number, because my head rang right. The words came right. And I was a journalist, asking Greg all the right questions.

I'm not a criminal, he said.

I was just bored, man, he said.

You see, I was in a rut, he said. Last month I put up a personal on Craigslist. I know, it's pretty ******* desperate. I've read the kind **** people put on there. But mine was different. I just wanted some time with my ex-wife. Some couch ***, you know? We hadn't done it on a couch since I dropped out of college, and I hadn't even really thought about it until a couple weeks after the divorce. Then it was all I could think about.

A black woman, whose teeth glowed under the black light, began singing "Wild Horses." Then he read my mind, I think.

Yeah, she answered it. Did our thing on her sofa. It was nice and all, and like all nice things, you just want more, but she said I couldn't have no more, this was a fluke, a one-time, or no, a one-off thing, she said. Had to relocate, so that's why I did that whole thing at Granny's.

You ever get it on a couch? he asked.

No, I said. I've see a bra though --- two actually.

He took that as a joke, which was good.

Though wild horses couldn't drag me away, a gasoline horse could.


He handed me a courtesy breath mint after I finished throwing up. The Nashville skyline looks perfect, he said. Especially at night.

My stomach was gravel in a washing machine. Masculine love. At gunpoint, I had agreed to indulge it. I was going to make love to a man -- not just a man -- a criminal. Not something to write about on a postcard.

Mr. Winters, my esteemed landlord,
Apologies about the rent. Got kidnapped by a *******, and I'm presently banging and being banged by him in Music City, USA.

I blinked.

We laid on opposite ends of the queen-sized mattress.

I always liked Super 8s, Greg said. I don't see the point in spending so much on a hotel. A bed is a bed.

And I tried to be funny with something about the confidentiality of dark bedsheets, but it fell flat.

Greg cried. I love my ex-wife, he said.

Can I help?

Will you hold me? he asked.

The air conditioner kicked on in the already freezing room.

I'm sorry. You don't have to, he said.

I scooted against him. He smelled pleasant in a family-vacation-kind-of-way, like a fresh pretzel covered in salt. I put my arm under his neck. He buried his face into my shoulder. I blinked.


The front end of his Cavalier was held together with copper wire and coat hangers. It was a two-door. Both doors dented from, according to Greg, hit-and-runs. It had a Vermont plate on the back. It was red. I mention all of this to say: if we kept moving, we were bound to get pulled over.

In the parking lot of 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer, Greg asked me to retrieve his revolver from the glove compartment. You kinda have to uppercut it, he said. And I did.

I don't want to do it again, but we have to. I'm not staying put, not until I hit the ocean. But don't worry, I'm not going to hurt anyone.

He showed me the revolver. No bullets. I nodded, in approval, I guess.


The second time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer in Bellevue, Tennessee. Of course, it was the same man, Greg, but the circumstances were a little different.

I went with two orders of biscuits and gravy --- or B & G as my dear friend Chance affectionately calls it. Four bites in and I'd yet to hit biscuit. For a moment, I wanted to tell Greg, C'mon man, ***** the ocean. Tennessee does gravy the way God intended. Nobody would find us in this suburb. We could be sharecroppers. Do they still have sharecroppers?

Do you like fresh corn? I asked. It was the first crop that came to mind.

Greg didn't answer. I noticed his plate of hash browns and eggs -- sunny-side up -- were untouched. You okay?

He was, he said, trying to get in the zone, that's all.

Alright.

Our waitress looked like a poster child for ******'s Youth. She couldn't have been much more than sixteen. She had blonde -- almost white -- hair. Her eyes changed color with the intensity and direction of light, a gradient between seaweed and dark ocean blue. She appeared to be an amish girl gone defective, and I was about to inquire into that very supposition when Greg stood on the table, and said, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second.

Tennessee is not North Carolina. In North Carolina, they got a healthy aversion to firearms. In Tennessee, however, once a babe can walk, the *******'s got a BB gun and an endless supply of empty soda cans for target practice. I say that, to say this: when Greg stood on the table, so did three other men. Their three guns pointed right at him.

Lower that gun, brother. You ain't gettin' any money out of us.

Hate to shoot you in front of your boyfriend.

Coffee spilled and ran off the tray our waitress held. She shook so hard, it wasn't clear how many women she was.

Greg's cleft chin centered on one gunman, than the other, than the other.

Just drop the gun, *******.

We don't want to ruin no one's breakfast.

Fellas, I said, he doesn't have any bullets in his gun. We need a little money that's all.

That ****** is just trying to protect him.

I'm calling the cops, a purple-haired old woman yelped from under her table. Silverware clanged against the floor. Then the buzz of a fly. Then the pop of fries drowning in grease. Then the bell chimed as some idiot walked inside.

Greg's arm was shaky as he pointed the gun at me. Do you love me? he asked.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I put my arms up. Slid my chair back a ways. Stepped on the chair, then unto the table.

Do you love me? Greg asked.

His breath smelled like last night's alcohol and that morning's coffee. He was a child, a sunburnt child with a cap gun. He wasn't going to hurt anyone.

I put my hand on top of the revolver and lowered it. He crumpled, as if I were scolding him. They still pointed their guns at us. But for the first time in my life, I felt secured, tethered to a space.

I lifted Greg's chin up with my index finger. Covered his eyes with the palm of my hand. And I kissed him. I kissed him, keeping my eyes closed tight.

Letter, letter born to return to sender--
extra-marital, maritime, marine, mercy, mercy mine--
two drinks in; four from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
.38 special, sexless, spiteful, spitting, spitting rites--
three drinks in; three from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
double-decker, drugged, dangerous, daggers, daggers dried--
four drinks in; two from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
clusterfucked, fancy-free, foreign, fine, fine unwind,
five drinks in; one from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
ether cloud, Evelyn, earthware, everyday, everyday signs--
six drinks in; on the carpeted floor,
letter, letter born to return to sender,
whitewashed, weakly, wounded, wishing, wishing for home.

Bradley, don't climb, the boy's mother says as she pries him off the bronze left shoulder of Sam Walton. She dusts the boy's coat. *Wait here a second. She begins digging in her purse. Her grey, sweatpants'd husband holds a point-n-shoot digital camera. The wind is inconveniencing him. The fog is inconveniencing him. Sorry, sweetie. I'm looking for a tissue. Every word his wife says shatters like glass.  He's been on the road too long. Of all the places, why make a pilgrim's stop at Kingfisher, Oklahoma?

It's the 7th of December. A day FDR said would live in infamy. It's also my birthday (thanks for setting the stage, Roosevelt). And here I am. Making my own pilgrim's stop at a subpar statue marking the birthplace of Mr. Sam Walton with no one for company but a green thermos and these tourists.

While his mother is distracted, the boy tears at yellowed grass. He pretends to feed the blades to Sam Walton's open-mouthed and unexplained canine. The husband sighs.

Ah! I found them, the mother reassures. Grimacing, as though shards of her words have lodged in the far corners of his brain, the husband asks,

Are we ready?

Not bad. The tiny bubbles from the champagne firecracker on my tongue as I lower the green thermos. Reminders of spilt coffee dot its sides like the little, overlooked  coastal islands of New England. Reaching? I know. But I'm learning to take notice of things, Sam. Patience.

I got into town before the liquor store opened. I vultured behind steering column. After a glance, a longhaired shopkeep with an oak cask belly shook his head in disdain for my entire generation. Turned the key. Flipped the sign from closed to open. Not to appear eager, I waited for a commercial break on the radio. I walked through. A bell chimed. Thirsty, son? the shopkeep asked.

I always am at the sound of a bell, I responded.

Let me get this off real quick, the mother says to Sam Walton as she wipes dry, white bird **** off a deep-cut wrinkle in his bronze forehead. Can't take a picture with you looking like that. The mother turns around. Offers an unsteady, white flag smile to her husband. Looks down at her boy. Bradley, stop playing with the grass. I mean it. Drop it. Stand by Mommy. We're going to take a picture.

Why?

Whiskey modge podged with ***** with wine with gin. Champagne. Champagne. Confused? lines joyously sparked from the edges of the shopkeep's eyes and lightning'd down his cheeks. Making him seem pleasant for the first time. Proud, even. I've organized the drinks by country of origin. Notice the flags?

What does France's flag look like?

France is over here. Looking for a wine? Perhaps a rich cognac? He led me down a densely packed aisle. Little ratings cards jutted out underneath each bottle.

Champagne, actually.

I see. I see. Is something ending or something beginning?

Both.

The boy places his hand on the dog's head. Pretends to ruffle its frozen fur.

Ready?

Ready.

Click. A flash goes off. Automatic.

Now can we leave? the boys pleads.

Why are you being so antsy?

It's just another stupid statue. I'm tired of this stupid trip. I just want to go home.

Today's my birthday. I lowered the champagne as I poured it into the green thermos. I kept watch for shoppers and cart crewmen in the parking lot. No one seemed to notice the transfer. The shopkeep ended up selling me an American bubbly. Silent Girl. I liked the artwork. A large-breasted woman with puckered lips stared down the sights of a .44 pointed directly at the drinker. Black and white. Refreshing to see someone so up-front.

The mother opened one of the rear doors on the family's Tahoe. No, you don't get a toy. Brats don't get toys. Brats get quiet time. She slammed the door.

Just you and me, Sam. A drink. Sorry, I didn't bring another cup. I lean in close. Trace the wrinkles of his forehead, where the sculptor stuck his knife deep. As I do, my own wrinkles become more apparent.

You know I heard a minister talking about you a week ago. I remove my hand from Sam's face. Take another drink. Apparently, your last words are his claim to fame. He said your nurse divulged them to him. You should see him. Each church he visits, he opens with, 'Anyone know what Sam Walton's last words were?' He doesn't ease into it or anything.

'Sam Walton's last words were actually, I blew it.' Can you believe that? 'I blew it.' Don't worry, Sam. I didn't buy it. That answer is for the customer. Not for truth. People love to think at the end of your successful trajectory, you'd just Solomon out. Fizzle. 'Vanity! Vanity!' I'd like to think there you lied in your hospital bed. In your private room. 7th Floor. Curtains open. Blue sky free of blackbirds. Your family around you. And your mouth tasting like metal. Like blood. The gears of your existence grinding to an end. And I bet you hated everyone in that room. Your wife wiping spittle off your mouth with a red handkerchief. You pushing her arthritic claws away. I bet one of your grandkids was at the end of the bed. His hair unwashed for two days. Uncombed for six months. A tall cow suckling your success. And I bet that clumsy hair was blocking the television. You told him to move.

When he moved, something horrendous was on. A soap opera. Something frustratingly ironic. General Hospital. Hit the red button. Called in the nurse. And your last words, 'Change the channel.' She put it on a Cowboys game. You watched Aikman throw an interception. Closed your eyelids. Changed the channel.

It's the 7th of December, Sam. It's my birthday. A milestone, Sam. So, there's cause for change. I told you the same ambition in you coursed through me. That I too, had sat in the back booth of diners alone -- conspiring. And while you're eternal bronze, while you're family photos, I'm mortal to a fault. But allowed to change my mind. I don't want to be ambitious, Sam. That's what I came to say. I'm not coming back to wail at this wall. Legacy, you taught me, is not in my hands. Even if I make a helluva go at it on this sphere, I run the risk of getting turned into half a statue with an idiot dog sidekick. You can dam a river, but ultimately rivers don't give a ****. They flow where they please.

That's the end. The beginning is that I can go anywhere from here. That's worth celebrating. I tilt the green thermos and let champagne run down Sam Walton's still face. This river runs onward. Without fear of legacy, of memory. I'm going to love, Sam. I'm going to love fully. Onward. While you stay put. A stupid statue.

Sam Walton is silent. Quiet time.

the wild suburban dogs
eat
the leftovers of a tom cat
outside
my apartment door--
the neighbors gone,
they must've done wrong,
the cops keep asking me
where they went--
a bluebird lands
on
a bent limb,
no song to sing
just worms to slurp,
a nest to think about,
and a debt
to me--
for the undeserved attention
I grant.

Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******.

Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.

I'm running 7:25 splits. Eight miles in. I haven't got stuck at an intersection. Not that I ever do. Runners got the right-of-way. And like my buddy Randy Run 'N Gun would say, I'm zen. Very ******* zen. Used to be a walker. Not no more. Not after the heart attack. No, siree, I'm a runner. A good runner. Lost 45 pounds. I did. I did. I stick to the left side of the road. So I can see the guilt in the drivers' eyes as they pass by. They're thinking, there's an old man out there taking care of hisself. I should be taking care of myself.

And they should. They really should.

But what's exercise to the people in this town? A walk down the block to Loaf 'N Jug for a Snickers, that's what. Or if you're a rich *****, it's twenty minutes on a Stairmaster three times a week. And I have to wonder if they're really doing it for them, you know?

I'm on the way back to the house. I peel off 30th, cutting across four lanes of traffic. Head into Garden of the Gods park. I do this so people get the right idea of the city. When I was a tourist here, I thought to myself, why's everybody all lumpy-assed and tied to children. Made a promise to myself. Told myself, when you move out there, you're going to be the trophy. So, I run through the red rocks and insert myself, mid-stride, into all those family photos. That way, when they get home, they'll point at their pictures and say, everyone in Colorado is so fit.

Now I'm getting close to the spot. It happened about a mile--mile and a half into the Snake Trail over by that 30-foot tall rock that looks a bit like Lyndon Johnson. I was a tourist and a walker then. Not no more. Not ever again.

There's a stretch of blacktop that cuts Snake Trail in two. I can't remember the name of the road. I think it's named after some preacher who got cholera, lost his faith, regained his faith in the end. One of those touching trajectories. Those stories always sound like a lot of fluffy *******, if you ask me.

Cars are backed up on Wishy-Washy Preacher Road. There's a crowd of people gathered in the middle. I look at my running watch. I don't like this. This is the kind of unplanned circumstance that skews your splits. Then your run time makes you feel like a lumpy-***, and that ain't me. Not no more.

I start pushing through the crowd. There's a lot of whispering and a lot of little kids all snotty and teary-eyed. And it's all just frustrating, because I feel like I'm cutting through molasses. I look at my running watch. I reach the center of the crowd.

A mule deer had been runover--well, halfway. The stupid beast still uses his front legs, dragging his crumpled and ****** backside along in a mad circle. A screechy whimper comes out in intervals like beeping hospital machinery. He's so scared, some middle-aged woman with a kid to each hip, says. A longbeard, beergut hippie starts into a prayer,

Gods of the natural world, gods of the sweet animal kingdom,
we ask that you wrap this wounded beacon of your light
into your warm embrace. May you replace his great pain
with the great comfort of your cool breezes, with the great
comfort of your warm sun, with the great comfort of fresh water.

I unzip my running belt. It's not a ***** pack. I pull out my NAA Guardian .32 automatic. It's not a woman's weapon. See, Randy Run 'N Gun, got his name because he invented this kind of running. I respect him for it. Got nothing but respect for that man. See, a fella has to be prepared at all times. There are mountain lions. There are bears. And perhaps worst of all are all these ******* mule deers. They ain't even scared of people. They stop and wait for you to feed them, blocking the sidewalk when I run, skewing my splits.

These hippies ain't going to do ****. They're taking photos with their cellulars and saying theologically vague prayers. And all these tourists are watching. So I walk right up to the mule deer. Someone behind me breathes in so hard, it's like she vacuumed all the sound. Pop. Pop. The beast stops its beeping. Legs twitch. Legs stop twitching. I'm the only one with courage enough to grant a mercy ****.

It's all about doing. Right? That's what the heart attack taught me. Before the heart attack, I thought about being a runner. The rhythm of it, the mechanical discipline appealed to me. Liked the idea of doing a marathon or the sound of it.  I was walking in Garden of the Gods. Noticed the LBJ rock, said to myself, Holy hell that looks like Lyndon Johnson. I heard these quick steps coming from behind me. I thought some potstentch, beergut hippie was going stab me. Felt like the gears at the center of me came off their handle. The right side of me just wasn't there anymore. As I fell I saw it was only a runner.

I reach the Lyndon Johnson rock. I'm eleven miles in. My splits have averaged to 7:43. ******* deer. The ground is lower at the spot where I had the heart attack. Why? Because I dug a hole there, that's why. The old me, the walking me, the tourist me lies dead in that hole. As I pass by, I spit it the ditch as I always do. Good riddance. Yep. Yep.

The trail finally turns downward. A little more oxygen in Ute Valley. Randy Run 'N Gun he calls moments like this, Runner's Reward. And I like that. Nature's okay. The cedars, the meadows, rivers -- all that **** -- is just fine. But what I like about running is the metaphor. See all the hippies, all the tourists they live their lives in a constant state of reward. They think, I'm alive, so I'll smoke this ***. They think, I'm alive, so I'll take ******* pictures of everything. But runners, runners know that you don't deserve life. It's a gift to be earned. So you work your *** off. Mile after mile. A reward for me is a valley. The reward doesn't last long, just long enough for me to catch my breath, you know?

I exit the valley. I pick up the pace. Try to make up for earlier delay. I cross Flying W Ranch Road. I hear metal-scraping-metal. And I'm hit.

I'm in the air. I'm sliding. I'm bouncing. My knees and elbows are hot. I blink.

A woman in a bright pink tank top and yoga pants stands over me. Stay in the car, Jacob, she shouts. Oh my god, oh my god.

I tell her runners have the right-of-way. But she doesn't respond. I say, Lady help me up, you're ******* up my splits. But she doesn't respond to that. She repeats over and over, You're going to be okay. Your'e going to be okay. Just keep looking at me.

I turn my head. The display on my watch is cracked. I can't read my splits average. My head is a ton of bricks. My elbows and knees are hot.

Jacob, stop, the woman says.

Her boy stands over me, taking pictures with his cellular.

skyscraper man on seattle time
looms in the corner of swan lake and fry
untouchable denim untouchable blueblack plaid jacket
     he's put together with clothespins
     he's put together with stipends
     he's crammed between taxi cab book ends
skyscraper man on seattle time
stoic as the jet engines roar by
all his friends are magazines all his friends currentbrief
     he's got a little future
     he's got a few dimes
     he's got no father to call out the lies
skyscraper man on seattle time
watches smog children kick ***** on concrete
vulnerable under trees writes his novels in purpleink
     he's married once before
     he's read crucifixion lore
     he's returned his money to the store
skyscraper man on seattle time
looking through spectacles of ***** and brine
the rain falls hard the breeze sweet on the leaves
     he's emptying the soul of modern rock n' roll
     he's emptying the tray of ashed thought
     he's emptying the bank account cold
skyscraper man on seattle time
sheds crinkled skinmemory like the cicada
a twin-sized deathbed deathbed in apt. 203
     he's nothing.
     he's ever.
     he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
carbon copied and eternal as saltwater as rust
invisible and tapping at the runrain window
     he's nothing.
     he's ever.
     he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
climbs himself to the cosmos lightheaded perfection
ethereal visions of fullbloom love and legacy with measure
     he's nothing.
     he's ever.
     he's happened.

You know how the Lorax spoke for the trees? I feel the need to speak for my four-year-old niece. Not because she can't speak -- she can and rarely stops once she starts -- but because there are certain concepts time has yet to grant her. So until time does, I got you covered, Lucy.*

Mommy,
you call it the "poetry" of a child's sleep,
ohh 'n ahh, she's so, so sweet,
I call it child's "pose." Not the yoga neither.
I'm posing and rolling and cooing
biding time until you're tripping on the
Ambien retreating to a dream.
You're only reprieve.
'Cause when your *** is asleep,
I be mixing up the Play-doh,
red and yellow, black and white,
'till it's 50 shades of brown, alright?
Dirt pies from the backyard,
put 'em by the brownies
in the morning world-weary in your pajamys
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

Over my shoulder, drinking from a thermos --
stumble in your step mean you gettin' nervous--
hand me piece of paper and two crayons
macaroni orange and swamp water liaisons
these coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
These coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
"Color outside the lines, eh Lucy?
don't play by the rules," my Mommy say,
but I been around long enough to know dat
'dese rules pay. Outside the lines?  Is just uh sloppy.
Been outside the club in front of the line
with my fellow shawties.
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

Chicken and fries three meals-a-day.
Chocolate milk three meals-a-day.
Tricycle boys three wheels away.
Hands on your hips can't make me stay.

Lego blocks lodged in your skull.
I've hid the Advil. The Dayquil. Drank the Nyquil though.
Alright, alright, time to get confessional.
All my ***** accidents are intentional.
I melt my own Barbies to feel alive.
Snort glue sticks just to get hella high.

Mommy, you've got a messy ketchup face.
Mommy, you've got spiders in your hair.
Mommy, you've got ***-*** on your pants.
Ha. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Bi-otch.

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

Rachel’s hair, black as ink,
splatters my blank skin.
It’s a rewrite for bad readers,
a stroll for quick-to screamers,
a phone call at 3 a.m., and
a sickening high that just won’t end.


Rachel’s teeth, sharp/jagged like littered glass shards,
dig into my aged, faintly seasoned flesh.
It’s a feast for lazy vultures,
an eyesore for devout heathens,
a dusty revolver on a Sunday, and
a lone drunk at a flybuzz wedding.

Rachel’s soul, battering ram/sputtering mad,
dilutes toxic mine, leaves only the rind.
It’s a constant reminder for dangerous nostalgia,
a blanket smoldering in fire within winter-without-end,
a handshake and a heart attack for closest kin,
an elevation, a joyous atomic cloud, and
a sky crying elative confetti tears of future me.

is a carniverous cemetery,
is a pacifier,
is a ******* on a friday night,
is only enough liquor to get you buzzed,
is a ****** bag cop,
is a church with splintered pews,
is sinners scared shitless,
is a two-year-old with an affinity for violence,
is my ex-girlfriend,
is paranoid,
is a blanket of all your favorite prescription pills,
is worried sorority girls in dark-wash jeans,
is unshaved,
is a cancer,
is a perpetual spell-check,
is lonely,
is my mother
and a god-awful toothache.

we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****,
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).

still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.

here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
this
machine [her body]
can do."

but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
swallowing
and
it makes me uncomfortable
but
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."

I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***.
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean
anything?

"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.

"mazel tov," I say.

His navy blue sports coat with brass buttons appeared to have been folded, again and again, as if to create ornate origami then unfolded to wear every Tuesday and Friday at his job at the Xerox call center in Colorado Springs. He kept his small, stubby fingers in his pockets, uncapping and recapping pens or fiddling with keys. As he passed by co-workers, adjusting his body to make adequate room in the narrow path between spines of cubicles, he would nod and say an almost audible hello. This was difficult for him, but he was trying something he'd read in a self-help book called Going Up.

And go up he had, ever so marginally. But up still. Despite his translucent blonde mustache, which was quite thick but only visible at a certain angle, under a discriminating light, despite his wrinkled clothes, despite the tight, Brillo pad, curly mess of hair atop his head, he'd stepped up from customer service representative to quality specialist, much to the yawning disbelief of his former spinemates.

Craig didn't have a girlfriend, but he had an ex, and, though he tried to never bring her up when talking with a woman in the break room, usually Kaley or Jewelz (spelled that way on her name badge), he did, nearly every time. He didn't know if this was an attempt to relate a yes, I've seen a woman naked in real life--so or evidence that he had, at least at one point, value.

He and twelve other quality specialists shared an office on the east side of the center. In each call he screened he made sure the customer service representative demonstrated the Three Cs: Courtesy, Commit, and Close. He no longer had to hand deliver critiques to reps because H.R. deemed it a liability risk with all the death threats he received. Instead, he sent out emails with no mention of his name. They read something like this:

Dear Customer Service Representative 216442,

Upon review of call number 100043212, which took place on 03/12/12, the Quality department noticed that while you did a super job of being courteous (great use of customer's name!) and closing (we love that you didn't just say, "Thank you for being a Xerox customer, etc., etc.," but instead said, "At Xerox it's our absolute pleasure to serve you." How true! We love that in quality), we noticed you over committed in your commitment statement. During the call, you tell the customer, "I'll have that problem fixed for you in no time." While that is ideal, there are situations in which you will not be able to solve the customer's problem. So instead of saying with certainty that you will have a solution, say, "Let me review your account and see what OPTIONS we have for you today." This tells the customer that you are concerned, yet you do not promise that which you cannot deliver.

Quality Control Team
CS Springs

Craig quit smoking two or three times a week, a hundred or 150 times a year. At 26, he woke up to wake up; he worked to work, to say yes, I have a job, to say yes, it's unbelievable how much of my money Uncle Sam gets, to say, I'm saving for a car or a new place or a full-size bed; he went to the bar after work on Thursdays and Saturdays to go to the bar on Thursdays and Saturdays; he'd say hello to say hello. Today was tomorrow is yesterday.

At the foot of Ute Valley park he lived in a home not all that different from where your mother sleeps, a white split-level with charcoal shutters and a two-car garage--though Craig slept where your mother would not: in the unfinished basement, for the home was not his but his brother's. His brother had a nice wife and a nice three-year-old boy, and they ate pizza on Wednesdays, went to the park, weather permitting, every day after supper for a nice time.

Craig observed this more than participated. He'd listen to blocks fall, his brother stepping on action figures, his brother's wife cooking--all from underneath them. As the floorboards creaked he committed each cohabitant's gait to memory. He vultured deli meat and low-fat slices of cheese out of the fridge when no one was in the kitchen.  

At night he'd drink a bottle of his ex-girlfriend's favorite wine, just to watch it go empty. He'd fall asleep on top of the covers and dream, not without some anguish, **** dreams of her.

It was the December of '91,
and Larry asked me to come with
him and some ladies he knew
from Cameron Christian to
some **** yogurt shop on
Dead Dog Ave.

Three brunettes and a blonde;
at the time
I didn't care much for brunettes,
but god, god, god,
the blonde
with the crystal grey eyes,
the wrinkled floral print dress,
an optimistic ***,
and shaky feet
every single time
I made the eyes.

Sarah and Jennifer (two of the brunettes)
smelled of Glade-Feces-Blanket-Spray,
the third was far too young
to undress,
and I nearly strangled my beautiful blonde
when she mouthed, "Eliza."

I kept talking up the
fact my dad had just kicked me out.
I told Eliza I had the most magnificent
apartment
a bachelor could buy,
she kept averting her eyes,
shifting subjects like
playing cards,
my hands kept clinching,
clasping,
aching,
"Be right back, purty ladies."
I headed for the bathroom
leaving Larry to ******
Jennifer Glade.

I looked in the mirror,
I remember giving myself
a pep talk,
but I can't for the life of me
remember anything I said.

I remember pulling a dwindling
bottle of Black Label from my jacket.
I had taken it from my ******* dad,
the night he yelled, yelled, yelled,
until I was in some low-income complex
with a bunch of lowlife, ******
fuckups.

I ****** off the remnants.
Combed, recombed my greasy hair,
went back in,
just in time to hear
Jennifer Glade spout her stupid mouth,
"Larry, I told you I have a boyfriend."
"He's a ******* idiot."
She started to whimper,
said something like he was a regular sweetheart.
The regulars are so boring.

Larry stood up,
accused her of leading him on,
the acne cashier asked us to "pipe down",
I directed my stare into his acne-framed
irises.

I walked quietly toward him,
I could feel Larry and the girls
tracing my every feature.
"Just leave him alone,"
said my blonde little sweetie,
I turned back to her briefly.
Her skin looked like milk,
I wondered if it tasted like milk,
I kept my feet on track,
redirected the gaze,
back to my heavy-breathing cashier.

I got eight inches away from his face,
he fumbled some words,
that left a bad taste.
I could see my reflection in his retinas.
I looked clumsy and circular.
My milky, blonde Eliza would
never go for a circular **** like me.
This conclusion
coursed through my veins with
irrational speed.

I shot the acne cashier.
Right in his stupid, acne-framed iris.
The gun had been my grandfather's.
He had killed a black boy in the '30s with it.
Got to love legacies.

The brunettes were screaming.
I think Larry was trying to reason with me,
or maybe he was throwing up-
somebody threw up,
anyways,
I shot the young one first.
She had annoyed me most.

Then Sarah Glade.
Then Jennifer Glade.
Eliza began to run.

I jogged after her,
she frantically searched for a phone,
and my milky blonde
found one.

I stopped at the doorway,
rested my head on the frame,
listened to her cry into the handset,
begging for the police.
I opened my lids,
silently strolled up behind her,
with my left hand
I grabbed her optimistic ***,
with my right hand
I pulled the trigger.
She splattered onto me.
I felt successful.

I walked outside.
A silent,
still Austin night,
not even a dog on the street.
Larry was crying.
I told him to shut up.
They were *******.
Asked him for his lighter.
He opened his car door,
dug in his center console,
buried under 6-feet of cigarettes
was a lighter,
he popped the trunk,
I grabbed the gas can.

I erased Friday's mistakes,
and found Larry had driven off without me.
I walked to my low-income home.
I had a lazy Saturday.
Read an interesting story in the Guardian on Sunday.
By noon on Monday,
they were pointing cameras at me.

The skin of your shoulders,
the skin of my teeth,
tripping tips of fingers,
eyes retreat and re-meet.

We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
you grappled and tore,
bit, I kept it to a dull roar.

You, you did coo,
as I saw nothing through,
coos for crooning,
surreal, surreal, surreal.

Excite the hunter,
excite the huntress,
as we take turns playing the prey.

Levitate the weight,
paw at my soul,
I lick your sores,
and beautify the remains.

We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
returned and renewed
a sense of pulse, a sense of the thrill.

You claim me again and again,
claw into me, spilling my demons,
whispers smoke, chaotic melody.

An overgrown field of sheets
laid flat,
no question, no success or distraction,
panting, panting, panting.

Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.

"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.

"Is she eating?" my mother asks.

"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.

My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red ****-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.

Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.

"I forgot my trunks."

"That's no excuse."

I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.

In the living room.

While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.

Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:

"All roads lead to me."

Just below the ridge line, east of Tinnamon's Creek, that's where we found Lily's dachshund.
The brown, island patch of fur beneath its snout was caked with blood -- throat turn, chewed.
No coat remained on its front legs. Framework mostly. Some dangling, loose tissue.
White fibers I didn't recognize dotted the shriveled body. How many days had it been?
Three? Four?

"What'd you expect to find?" Harvey said, lifting the tag. "Brannagh. 5321 Starlite Drive."

"I know, I know. Lily's still going to break. Doesn't matter what I expected."

Harvey ran his palm along the dog's belly. Whispered something I didn't catch. The sun began to sink behind the mountains -- everything turned a variance of purple. And the wind came in, unannounced, as wind tends to do. What's the protocol on a dead dog? Bury at the scene of the crime? A pile of rocks left behind for hikers on the passing by to say, "I wonder what happened there." Or did we bag the unfortunate beast? Ring the doorbell. Ask Lily if she's got a shovel. Our fathers made no mention of times like that.

"I've never understood why people have pets," Harvey said. "Do you just want to be miserable? Your cat Socks, Millie, whatever, is gonna die. Your turtle Larry is gonna die. The charismatic hamster in the classroom, running the wheel, knows every step with its stupid paws could be its last. 22 fourth graders taught expiration dates. Teachers sign up for that. Brannagh was gonna die. Lily knew she'd outlive the dog."

Four deer looked on down by the creek. Still, yet comfortable in their stillness. I could have touched them if I wanted to. I hated that. Deer in Colorado made me feel powerless. They assumed, automatically, that I carried no firearm, only a camera and a bit of Chex Mix. Pallid threads continued to float down from the sky.

"What is this stuff?" I asked.

"What stuff?"

"Falling. In her fur, right there. On your shirt. In your hair. The white stuff."

After a quick scan of his chest, Harvey pinched one of the white fibers between his index finger and thumb. Hardly gave it a thought before giving it a flick.

"They're just coming off the cottonwoods. Happens toward the end of spring," Harvey said, reaching in his back pocket and pulling out a garbage bag.

"Is that what we are going to do?"

"I'm not burying the dog out here. Lily needs closure. If she 'breaks,' she breaks."

Harvey opened the black bag. Stepped on the bottom of it. So it would hold against the wind.

"Put the dog in here," he said.

"I'm not doing that."

"Well, you have to."

"Why?"

"I'm holding the trash bag."

The dog's eyes weren't there. Whatever mysterious factor that leads people to buy dachshunds, whether concentrated dose of cuteness or unmerited friendliness, it had bled out. I walked around to the other side of the dog. Stuck my hands under its spine -- cleanest spot. Stiff from rigor mortis, sure, but stiffer than rigor mortis alone. I knew the stiffness of death from my childhood collection of unfortunate pets. The sun had baked him, made the matted tufts sharp. I dropped Brannagh in the bag. Harvey lifted up quickly, as to not let the corpse hit the ground.

With the deer still watching, we began to climb up the rockface, taking us back to the trail. My eyes fixated on my feet to avoid a misstep. Harvey took the lead, looking only forward. When he began to speak, he did not turn around.

"You know what's funny about the cottonwoods? I hadn't thought about this in a long time -- both my mom and dad had a theory about what you so eloquently called 'white stuff.' Mom, sticking by her poverty- and church-induced eternal optimism, said that the white strands falling from the sky, came off the clouds. 'Heaven's confetti,' she said. It was God reminding us that his grace reaches all of us."

"What did your dad think?"

"Well, Dad worked hard for what money we had, and going to church wasn't exactly his idea. Believed God owed him a little more. He didn't even sit with us. Back pew kinda guy. Mom would lead prayers focused solely on him moving up a few benches. Anyway, I say all that to say, being poor and going to church created optimism's opposite in my father. It wasn't long after I graduated high school, before I moved to Fort Collins, that Dad gave me his theory."

Harvey reached the top of the ridge. Gave me a hand. Dog's corpse slung over his shoulder. He looked at me.

"My dad said that the white strands from heaven weren't signs of encouragement. He said they were tears of those who'd gone before. People looking down, weeping at -- not only what violence brother does to brother -- but also at how we **** away every breath. 'Trading dreams for dollars.' "

"Which do you think is true."

Turning away from me, Harvey switched the garbage bag from his right shoulder to his left.

"Neither is an option. And to remind you, neither is the correct option. For the sake of humoring you?"

"Yes, for the sake of humoring me."

"I think my mother's would be more accurate."

"Why is that?"

"The cottonwoods shed one time a year. Seems to me that white stuff would be falling all the time if it was the disappointment and sorrow of those who've passed. One time a year. I can see God giving us a little something one time a year."

i was a hermit,
and you dragged me into
the never-ending metropolis
of your lives.

i was content in isolation,
and you introduced me
to birds of prey and
astronauts.

i was an entertaining centerpiece
for a day.
i was an entertaining delay.
i was the perfect way to segue
him back to his place.

i was a hermit,
and you bled me
to see how much
was left of me.

i was glad to see,
you were dissatisfied
with the amount.

i was a writer, a liar,
i was a dreamer, a denier,
i was a scapegoat, and the angry judge at your throat.

i am a hermit
with no place or person
to go.
i am a hermit
with no individual
soul.

In the stands, down 35-3 with two minutes left in the fourth,
Fred Carson picks at the sticky, white remnants of a Coke bottle's label.
He leans over to me,
"Do you mind if I talk to you again?"
I don't, and haven't since kickoff.

"You know, I played running back on this same field."

"Oh yeah?" I say, allowing the story to commence.

"Started all four years. Rushed 1,000 yards as a freshman."

"Wow."

"It took five guys to bring me down by my senior year."

"That's insane."

"I probably still hold the record for most rush yards,
but I doubt they keep up with things like that."

He takes a sip from his drink. It's half empty.
His hair -- greasy, most likely on its third unwashed day --
parts to the left and clings to his skull.
He's wearing a long sleeve, plaid dress shirt.
The shirt is buttoned to the top.

"Hell, that was back in 1968," slows, "I graduated in 19-68. Jesus."

Fred retired from the post office six years back.
He claims he's never missed a game of Blue Jay football since 1970.
The high school band starts playing in the section next to us --
a misshapen cover of "Louie, Louie".
Fred raises his voice,

"You know, I've been to every football game since 1970."

"Yeah, you mentioned that last week."

"I apologize. Yeah, if it wasn't for that first year of college.
I got a scholarship to play ball at Florida State.
Couldn't be there and here at the same time, you know? Kinda hard."

He runs his big-knuckled right hand along his khaki'd thigh, checking his pocket.
He checks the left thigh -- nothing.
Reaches into his shirt pocket and reveals a lighter.
Then a soft pack of Marlboro Lights emerge.

"You know, I ran the fifty in less than five seconds."

To the dismay of cheerleader moms sitting behind us,
he lights the cigarette.
He stares at the Bic lighter with some NASCAR driver -- number 88 --
I don't recognize.
The cutout of the NASCAR driver's scraggly face
sits atop a navy blue and spiraling purple backdrop.
He starts to scratch at the label on the lighter.
A screech from a clarinet rises above the rest of the band,
Fred grimaces, takes a drag, continues,

"The coach at Florida State said I was the fastest boy he'd ever seen.
He said I was going to go pro. Sure thing, he said. I rushed for nearly
300 yards in the first game my freshman year. After the game,
the coach was like, see boy, I told you. You are going to tear it up
this season."

The NASCAR decal comes completely off. Under that purple and blue label,
Fred uncovers a white lighter.

"Would you look at that. I wouldn't have bought the **** thing if
I knew it was a white lighter. That's bad luck, you know. Hendrix and
that--uh--Janis Joplin lady both died with a white lighter in their hand.
Bad luck. A white lighter is bad luck."

"What happened at Florida State?" I ask.

"Well, we were playing Notre Dame during the second game that season.
Down by five with three seconds left on the clock.
We were on our own thirty, and the coach of Florida State was like,
run the hail mary play. But in the huddle, I look the quarterback
square in the eyes, and I say to him, captain -- he was team captain --
I say, captain, I'm hungry for that ball. He knew I could do it.
He took the snap, the receivers rushed down field, and I bolted toward
that line of scrimmage, took the handoff and I was gone, baby."

The crowd begins to cheer as the Blue Jay quarterback throws a long pass
to a wide open receiver. Fred freezes mid-story.
The cheer blurs into a silence, as each person in the bleachers
watches the ball ascend.

For the first time all night, the band lowers their instruments from their lips.
Just a ball floating.
The buzz from the stadium lights becomes audible.
One person gasps.
Then like dominoes the stadium follows suit.

The high arc of the ball betrays the distance,
and the pigskin plummets sharply.

"Interception!" the announcer cries through the speakers.

"That's a **** shame. I thought he was going to have it.
What were we talking about?" Fred asks as he drops his
finished cigarette into the nearly empty, naked Coke bottle.

"You were talking about Florida State. You were down five and--"

"That's right. So, I break up the middle. I dust that noseguard.
I stiff arm a linebacker. I looked like a Heisman trophy in motion.
I travel 69-yards down the field. I'm slowing down at the endzone,
thinking nobody is around, and sure enough -- plow -- the cornerback
dives right into my leg. I broke all kinds of bones and tore all kinds
of muscles. The doctor told me, he'd never seen anything like it."

The band plays the fight song as the clock winds down and the Blue Jays lose.
I try to disappear in the sea of blue and silver exiting t-shirts,
but Fred slows me down,

"It sure was good talking to you. I'll have to tell you more about Florida State
next week. Be sure to sit by me."

"I will," I say as the band director, Mr. Morton, steps in front of me.

"Hey, Fred," Mr. Morton says. He looks at me, then back to Fred.
He's trying to decide whether or not I'm of relation.
"Son, I went to Seminole State Junior College with Fred here
when we got out of high school."

"Really? Did you guys play football together?" I ask with innocent inquisitiveness.

"No, we weren't really into that. Though, we were at all the games.
We were in band together. Until Fred's wild streak got the best of him,"
Mr. Morton laughs, "am I right, Fred?"



The fight song came to a close.
With a lowered head, Fred walked into the silver, blue crowd
with a plaid dress shirt buttoned to the top.

someone asked why i was never happy
for any notable period of time.

"i need the darkness to appreciate the light."

someone asked why i was never in the neighborhood
anymore.

"i never feel content in one place for more than a day."

someone asked why i was always alone.

"i've been looking for Her."

someone asked if i believed in war.

"i am bored."

someone asked if i struggled with pride.

"i'm on social networking sites."

someone asked if i felt a heavy sense of regret.

"i've gotten over the feeling."

someone asked if i was ready to die.

"no, my head is still full of all the whys."

There'll be a crowd encircling you, I'm sure.
They'll nod at your every word, imperfectly mimicking
what people look like when they actually listen.
I'm sure the crowd will be people we know.
Old high school friends with real estate ventures
and gyms and multi-level marketing schemes.
Most of them will be doughier, their cheeks permanently
stained red from a decade of drinking.
Most of them will have photos of their kids on their phones,
and they'll tell you they're "sure you don't want to see them"
as they pull out their phones and show you photos of their kids.

I imagine I'll approach, stop just short of the circle, pretend to bid on an Alaskan cruise.

As you talk about redoing your floor in a faux tile that looks just like the real thing for like half the price, you'll see me.

I hope you'll think of that kiss five years ago, outside of a bar in Norman, when the world entire bent for us, when all traffic silenced for us, when all people vanished for us.

Maybe you'll think of the time we ****** in a twin-sized bed, beside a wall decorated with newspaper clippings, which I thought made me look worldly and learned. I admit now the look was less academic, more serial killer.

And maybe you'll think of the manchild fit I threw when I found out you had moved on after I moved away.

And maybe you'll be totally present. Good to see you, you'll say. You will ask about my family. We will discuss the cooler weather. We will talk about your business, your kids. We will side hug and say goodbye. We will take the same route to the same exit. There will be children coloring the sidewalk with chalk. We'll each borrow a piece. I'll outline you; you'll outline me.

The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****,
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.

Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.

Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.

Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.

the priest, whose tomato face looked like it might explode under collar tension,
gave the valedictory at the friday night execution
the yellow-toothed, combover'd serial killer buckled in electric chair
kept staring at the door, expecting an ally to crawl in late but not too late
the mother of one of the victims rattled on about
how she didn't care that the killer had an allergy to the anesthetic used
in lethal injection      he's going to die either way     what's it matter?
buzz of fly    crack of rolled program against empty folding chair
(yes, there were programs, and whoever laid them out knew their typography)
buzz of fly raised upward, toward the black, magma-cooled ceiling
audience chin up, pupils circled fly as the priest droned on
about everlasting life like a Paul Simon song from his youth
like a catcher's mitt from his youth like a youth from his youth
the boyfriend of one of the mothers of one of the victims
said he was hungry    pancakes sound good, don't they?
I love it when syrup gets on the bacon, you know? love that.
a pudgy guard with bleary eyes and 12 a.m. shadow
rolled his index finger   lowered his brow, telling the
priest to wrap it up   so the priest wrapped it up
by reading the names of the victims
Tara Barnes, 17, Rachel Lythe, 10, Julie McPherson, 13,
Serenity Strongman, 15, and Mary Beth Williamson, 13
the priest said something about judgement as
the boyfriend of the mother of one of the victims
took another swat at the fly                       missed
any last words? the priest asked
where's James? the killer asked, he was supposed to be here
did you guys give him the right time?
the guard nodded to a lab coat by a black box
then a hiss then a hum then an inhale
the first jolt of alternating current for

instantaneous brain death

hard to tell if they succeeded in that
for the second jolt came only a moment
later    this shock's aim to fatally damage
the internal organs, overstimulate the heart
and the killer's face looked like a horse's leg
then an exhale then a hum then a hiss
and the killer's face looked like the crinkled
skinmemory of a cicada
it was late   most of the best restaurants already closed
but we could go to that diner off 63rd, the boyfriend
of the mother
of one of the victims, said

the coffee was cold.
a day old.
i heated it.
poured it.
fought through it.

put on a b-film.
something about crap
films made our lives
feel more fulfilling.

we laughed.
exposed every flaw.
we held hands.
snuck
loving glances.

i have to wake up in three
hours, but all i can think
is life is luck,
even for the dumbest of us,
when you tell your
eyes to open up.

Anna's kiss hit harder,
than most ****** climaxes--
left me stuttering,
sidestepping, scared of the
what's next?

Anna's hair on fire,
billowing smoke and
beckoning me to come in--
left me boiling,
bracing, barely conscious
of what's left?

Anna's bed of nails,
bled out and breathing--
left me dangerously
dumb, deaf
of what's she saying?

Anna's sharpened heels,
daggered the docile beige carpet--
left me sweating,
sighing, searching for further savior
in what are we?

Anna's black fingernails,
sunk into my shoulder--
left me lonely,
lusting, lashing in empty parking lot
now knowing,
rebirth requires a death.

On the west side of Starlite Dr.,
just inside of Kingfisher -- before the welcome sign,
stood a Wal-Mart.

Underneath dim lot lamps,
dry oil caked the cracked pavement.
Crickets hopped over cricket corpses.
Two employees took turns lighting new cigarettes
with the still-hot embers of old cigarettes.
There were six sedans, two pickups, and three semi-trucks
outside the store.

2 a.m.
Parked car.
I noticed an effulgent memorial on the fringe.
Subject unclear from a distance,
but statue certain;
gleam of bronze certain.
Followed the black chain-framed path
to a lemon brick-backed display:

Sam Walton
Hometown Kingfisher

And there you stood, Sam.
With a bobble of a bronze head,
gorilla arms, and some charcoal
canine frozen mid-pant to your side--
Beams of light shining into your carved eyes,
yellowed grass at your feet.

And I wonder,
Did you feel cruel?
Beginning as a Five and Dime,
then turning into the great killer of Five and Dimes.
Sitting at a table telling all your friends, they could watch you eat.

Too forward, too soon.
You being dead and all.

To be fair, I've got that ambition too, Sam.
The kind that leaves you lonely.
The kind that leaves you in the back booth of a diner.
The kind that makes the dunces conspire.
Yeah, there are very few differences between you and me.

Those being
I'm not a cartoon statue,
crickets aren't crawling on my face,
big-bellied tourists don't pose and snap photos at my place,
I'm mortal, and you're the other one.

Looked around.
Stood in front of you.
Stared in the direction your obsidian eyes stared.

You overlooked the traffic.
And though Target gets all the hot, middle-aged women
and fiery college kids,
you get the pleasure of watching real folks leave.
The tobacco chewers,
the moms of six,
the grease monkeys,
the third grade teachers;
the grandparents
all simmer and meld by traffic stop.

It seems fitting for you, Sam.
Watching over us,
your consumers.

coupon for Granny's Original 32% All Natural Oatmeal®
cart-to-cart down aisle 48 and this man's an affront to khakis
and this woman's brain runs off a child's complaints
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy 80 pounds of rock salt
from The Home Depot®, more saving. more doing.™
more rock salt. more doing
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy two-weeks-worth of tuna,
a pallet of Pepsi Max®, and four loaves of Baker Good's NeverMold Bread®
all for $21.99 with your Sam's Club® Rewards Card
BLIZZARD 2013
cart-to-cart down aisle 62 where once there was soda, now an I.O.U.
and I read on the internet that the preservatives in diet cola will keep
my body from decomposing and I read on the internet that these
dented, discount tuna cans will give me botulism
BLIZZARD 2013
one jug of water from a spring in Mountain View, Arkansas
one jug of water from a spring in New Iberia, Louisiana
picking between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana
the pitter-patter on the warehouse roof reassures
time for eenie meenie miney mo
BLIZZARD 2013
and the intercom desperate for a cart wrangler
customer service now open for checkout
don't leave your toddlers alone in shopping carts
they're choking on free samples
with an echo, raindrops strike parking lot pools
just past the intersection an ambulance grumbles
BLIZZARD 2013
in a room with a view wishing the windowpane weatherized
beers bought by volume, candles forgotten, six months of
licorice, EverFluff® popcorn, and hand warmers of chemical kind
remembered
BLIZZARD 2013
will not be landing in the city, watch out for that rain though
if the temperatures drop below 32 degrees it could ice over
and if the temperatures don't, well, it won't

News 7's coverage of Blizzard 2013 brought to you by
The Home Depot®, more saving. More doing.™
and Sam's Club®, savings made simple.™

In haste,
I took the first woman like a whiskey shot--
every ounce of her scarred my throat
kept me silent, kept me staggering under the weight.
When the bottom shelf love went beyond full bloom,
I vomited her up, leaving me with a headache.

In good conscious,
I took the second woman like an aspirin pill--
every milligram of her alleviated the pain
kept me similar to content, kept me tame.
When the effects wore off and I pined for another drink,
I put her in the cabinet, leaving me rambling nomadic.

In guilt,
I turned myself into the third woman like a penitent criminal--
every liter of her blood solidified
kept me wrapped behind her bars, kept me seeking her good graces.
When the prison sentence drew to a close,
I left her behind, walking with an unwashable history.

The fourth found me frightening,
the fifth just ignored,
the sixth designated me the "other man",
and the elusive seventh only said, "You could do better."

In my mind,
the pills, prisons, and liquor melded --
the days cut short,
the nights grew long,
but I could do better
I could do better
I could do better.

I sold the pills, I poured the whiskey down the sink,
I left prison to the prisoners,
and in the mirror I became a religious practitioner.

To the Church of Better I subscribed.
Sober, lone, and free my cry.
To the darkness I whispered:
I am the resurrection,
I cannot be killed,
I am the resurrection,
the Buddha,
the Jesus,
the Krishna,
the Allah.
I am the resurrection,
born again and again and again.

In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.

"Tell me what's off limits."

Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.

"Why?"

"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."

I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?
I can't stop.

Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Wavering.
Leafless.
***-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.

I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.

I climb her branches.
I can't stop.

Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I

stumble.

Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.

Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.

I can't stop.

rag in your mouth,
sweat gliding
along the contours of your sockets.

lights on.

no pretending.
look at my ******* face.
love only me tonight.

i'm more than alive.
i swear i'll tear your lids
if you so much as close them.

lights on.

I eyed you from across the room,
Tim was yak-yakking about some drop D heavy metal band
he was drumming in,
But I was tired of socializing,
I had only come to drink,
yet I was overtaken by you.
I'd seen you prettier, livelier.
You looked so blue
decked all in red,
in your worn out ****-me-shoes.

I think my mouth was still agape,
when your gaze turned my way.
We both were locked.
Getting headsick from the smoke,
waiting for the flame to catch up.

You'd never seen me so unkept.
I hadn't shaved in a couple months,
my hair was to my shoulders, and
my body was drowing in wrinkled,
secondhand, early 2000s high fashion.

I walked over. Leaving Tim talking about
fusing dubstep with his metal ****.

You were working at a bank,
making three bucks more than minimum.
You changed your major.
Your relations got too public,
so you're shooting for journalism.
Haha me too, or something like that,
is what I said.
Your smile became parasitic to my clumsy words.
You said we should hang out for old time's sake.
"I won't take no for an answer."

"I'm too sober for this."
I walked off, grabbed the flask from Tim,
spent the night strolling under streetlights,
and hoping to have a revelation.
But all I had was a dwindling buzz,
and a divine gravity pulling me
away from remaking the same
mistakes.

When sweet Sara gets to
Heaven to St. Peter
she will say,
not a **** thing,
only run her
tongue along her
full, glossy, ******* lips,
and snare his eyes
with her low-cut, cleavage
boasting blouse.

She'll get it.
*** always sells.

There is a state of existence,
                                                 where a person is neither A nor B
he's inbetween--
he's the addition, the subtraction, the shove and retraction,
                                                 I've spent my life "+"ing and "-"ing
building empires of handshakes,
floating from bar to bar with drinking pals,
crowbarring ice off queens of black venom,
                                                 I'm the distortion in the middle, but I can't see the end--
I never promised answers,
but the soft hands, the wet eye'd, and the widows
cry out for closure,
                                                 I get edgy and the "+"ing turns to "x"ing
Instead of answers--
I take the As and Bs,
I inhale their the white-knuckle moments,
I simmer in their fading passion,
I glide through their dying beds,
Instead of clear answers--
                                                A x B x A x B x A x B x A x B
=

(unfamiliarperfume, missingherwedding, socialnetworkwindowshopping, backroom, thestoplight, theschoolzone, dirtylaundry, rejectedphonecalls, hisgirlfriend, herboyfriend, hisboyfriend, hergirlfriend, otherwives, otherhusbands, blackout, clenchedfist, animmatureandirresponsibleflirtationwithaddiction, howlingatthemoon, gettingoffonthepast, leaveherinthenursinghome, makingthewake, mowingthegrass, droppingthebouquet, tooold, tooyoung, toolate, toosoon, toosweet, toocruel, toofat, toothin, toonosy, toodistant, toobad)
---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­----------------------
                                          ­                            Best Laid Plans              

And in the grey of early morning,
they look at the equation,
they look at the proposed solution,
and inevitably the As and the Bs
say to me,
"Now, simplify it."


I get edgy
I get edgy
I get edgy.

It was an—I don't know—unfleshing of sorts. There I am. I'm in my old room. My parent's place. And Mom's telling me what all we need to pack up and organize. This place, my room, it's frozen in time. It looks exactly the way it did when I graduated high school. The lime green walls, the Brett Favre poster, a few pieces of artwork my brother did. There are all these medals and trophies for soccer; football; academic *******; and most of it, to be frank, was undeserving. I phoned it in, my education and extra curriculars. Things came easy, et cetera. And the lesser accolades, the participation trophies, for these, Mom hands me a pocket knife and tells me to pry off the nameplates and she'll donate them to Goodwill. It was tangible, right? This erasure. I've talked to you about that before, erasure. I wanted to disappear completely, but there I am in my old room, prying away pieces of my past with a knife, a couple of nameplates popping off and hitting the floor before I can grab them. That sound, dull, empty, metallic.

I'm alone a lot now, you know? After losing the job, entering this funk, gaining weight. I'm in a depressive state. In that room, I felt like I was just further removing myself from the world, like my deletion had gained dimension, it was truly, ****, what word am I looking for here? Help me. Comprehensive. That's good. Sterile and safe for work. My erasure became comprehensive. Ha.

And it's hard to talk about this, depression, erasure. I always feel like a selfish child. I'm perpetually throwing a fit. I won't clean my room. I don't want to brush my teeth. I don't want to help grandma with lunch. Ha ha.

You say that. And I appreciate it. But if I always talked to you about this stuff, you'd stop answering the phone. Or I'd feel so guilty about bothering you that I'd stop calling. This feeling gets you from both sides. It's like that old adage. Never chew on something that's eating you. But that's precisely what I'm doing. In this moment. Outside of this moment. I want to ask you how do I stop. But what could you possibly say. Stop thinking about it. Find a hobby. Exercise. Read. Journal. Go to therapy. You could smile while you told me these things, you could pat my hand, you could finish your coffee, and you could walk out the door to face your own little tragedies, feeling like you'd done something kind today, check the box, score some karma. You see all those recommendations are tired, generic; they're surface level, phony. What would I prefer? I think if you threw that coffee in my face that'd be a start.

glamourous indie rock n' roll
orbited our tiny kitchen as i kissed
the nape of her neck.

lauren sliced the avocados.
i prepped the pasta.
our neat little domestic life.

her eyes would ignite mine,
as she spoke of reinventing
the world with her love.

every word rang with perfect truth,
for she had dissolved my callused heart,
and focused my idiot head.

and that night i lied in blankets of her
mercy.
as she licked the wicked wounds
of complacent cruelty.

i've never missed her more.

cleaning up the mess of documents
on my hard drive
I find one titled
"secret message"
double-click
it reads
"i love you."


wish they'd signed it

"Still water runs deep." - Yiddish Proverb*

To sail within a boat
never rocked or tucked within a sea.
Long grass kissing the bow.
Mosquito hum, siren stand-in.

Brother big, brother strong.
I, the groove of big brother's elbow.
Clothes on the line.
Canary yellow, A-line dress.
The spring girls swelling, rippling
from the bashful shore.

Big brother hold me over edge.
My arms, my oars.
Splashing pasture, blades receding.
Adults at birthday parties.

Brother big, brother mast.
Climb.
Not only sail, but zephyr, I.
Snake through Rusty Bike River,
the tributary.
Spill.
Into the wide, into the Harding Family Ocean.

Where dolls, hair frayed and faces smooshed,
lounge half-submerged and mostly forgotten.
Where sea dogs test chain, test spike.
Eye the confident chickens strolling dock.
And then Mother turns on porch lamp,
soft words, ebbing to lighthouse.

Brother big, big brother.
My arms, my arms.

A bad mix of Shorty's Irish Whisky
and a whimper riding the wind,
has got me lying about my past.
A roomful of men in nooseties surround,
crowbar stares prying at my mindsafe of secrets--
I drink until the grimace gives way to birthday cake grin
and my watering eyes burst in confetti.

Martha emerges from the black suits
in her spiderweb burgundy dress.
Jack and Nathan drool in the corner.
Martha whispers, "Hey Harvey," and then a terribly long
something-or-other in my ear,
but I'm too far gone to comprehend
or to care about comprehending.
The crafted playlist for this party
hiccups and dies, creating a suffocating silence.
The beady eyes turn shifty, erratic strayfire gazes
fill the room.

I begin to laugh.

I notice Jack talking to a grey-haired man and pointing at me.
Martha looks at me and nods with a sense of urgency.
New music coughs across the room,
I slide into a small, desperate clan of dreamy-talkers,
hungry for a new pair of ears to beesting with *******.
I listen, while my aging wolf scours the room.
I make a swift break for the door,
the night lies naked in front of me--
light pollution pours fake beams on the contours of the evening.
A middle-aged woman snags my arm before I can reach my car.
I pull until my arm frees, but she delays me enough
for the grey-haired man to catch up.

He introduces himself with a lightning one-two punch.
One being a sharp left hook.
Two being a dusting right uppercut.

"You stay the hell away from my daughter!"

I begin to ***** a river of orange, red, dotted with black chunks.
More than a few drops land on his shiny black leather shoes,
so he proceeds to break my nose with a vicious kick.

Amidst my moans, I am able to ask, "Who is your daughter?"

"Karen, Karen Newman."

"I have no idea who that is!" I cry.

"Don't lie to me, Jack! She told us all about you."

"My name is Harvey."

I look out into the road.
A blue sedan stops momentarily.

"I owe you one, buddy!" Jack shouts.

The Newman parents disappear without
so much as an apology.
I lay listening to the low hum of the city's traffic.
A few minutes pass, sending me into a haze.
Delicate fingers lift my head from the concrete,
I look up.
Martha begins to clean the blood and ***** from
my face with a wash cloth.
I feel soft and pure in her hands.

Some get that way by playing it safe,
memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules,
some get there by cutting seams,
lost in purposelessness, partaking of
ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything
that's buzzy enough,
some find their sweepstakes in curls,
in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath,
some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept
determination, some divorce their wives,
some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals,
some review albums and cut down the *******,
some write love stories for our grandmas,
our moms,
our ex-girlfriends,
some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging,
some in bomb threats,
some find it in supremacy,
others in melting pots,
some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats,
some in **** ***,
some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs,
some when they have hit the bottom rung,
some by rationalizing,
boosting themselves above half-wrongs,
to coast on the half-rights,
some by breaking up,
some by declaring war,
only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars,
some kids dance to experimental music,
some write blogs about capitalism,
some find it kicking it with bitter vegans,
others while murdering their parents,
but everyone is a winner,
everyone is right,
everyone has earned the paycheck,
the vacation,
the **** wife,
and the key to eternal life.

I.

The last thing? It wadn't nothing special. Pa and me, well, we never had what I guess you'd call a real easy exchange. He kept to hisself. I kept to myself. We worked hard, and we appreciated each other. But we--and this may be sad to you, but it ain't sad to me--we didn't get touchy-feely. Didn't say "I love you" or things like that. We traded off fetching the water. Traded off nabbing clothes off the line for Ma. He taught me how to be, to live, you know? How to work the cotton. How to work the mules. He gave me three bullets--just three--every time I took the .22 out to get a squirrel. "Make it count," he'd say. "Don't bring home less than four." Making it count--that means more than that other stuff.

So, what I'm saying is, in the end it wadn't no big to-do. Before he handed Ma the shotgun and told us to get, he stuck his head out the kitchen window, the one just over the sink. He said, "It's gonna rain. Them's the kind of clouds that ain't fickle."

I said I reckoned he was right. He said yep. Handed Ma the shotgun. And that was that.


II.

Robert never wanted to live in Tennessee. He was a Kentucky boy, and if it hadn't been for my selfishness, I believe he would have died a Kentucky boy--or man, rather--at a much later date. See my mother, Faye, she got dreadful sick back in '31, and I says to him, I says, Robert, you know my sister can't take care of her--this being on account of her being touched in the head and all. He didn't say nothing, which was usual, but he didn't grumble neither and that, that right there, is the mark of a good man.

We started with just 80 acres. He built the house hisself. Did you know that? It wasn't nothing fancy, no, but we didn't need nothing fancy. It was made pretty much entirely of--oh what do they call it. It ain't just cedar. That uh uh uh--red cedar. Can't believe I forgot that.

Anyway, our place was sprawling with red cedar. Not the prettiest trees you ever saw, but they were ours, and they provided what we needed of them.

Because of us doing alright with the logging, we was able to pick up the Whitmore place. That was another 160 acres.  Robert hated Tennessee, not a doubt in my mind about that. It was his home, though, you see. It was his land. He wanted to make something of it to give to our son, Henry.


III.

Come all you people if you want to hear
The story about a brave engineer;
He's Franklin D. Roosevelt, in Washington D.C.
He's running the train they call 'prosperity.'

Now he straightened up the banks with a big holiday;
He circulated money with the T.V.A.
With the C.C.C. and the C.W.A.
He's brought back smiles and kept hunger away.
      -"Casey Roosevelt" [Excerpts]
          Folk song recorded by Buck Fulton for E.C. and M.N. Kirkland, July, 1937


IV.

Before they even started on the reservoir, the Tennessee Valley Authority started digging up the dead. I'm serious. Most frightful thing you ever saw. Hickory Road--and I swear, I swear on the country, the good Lord, anything from a ****** to a mountain--the road was full-up with buggies carting coffins. Three days straight they were carting dead folks down to Clinton. Most of the coffins were barely holding up, too. Made out that crude pine. Seeing them yellow-but-not-yellow heads poking out was enough to make a feller sick.

If I remember right, they had to relocate something like 5,000 before they dammed up the Clinch, but they made a lot more living, breathing folks than that move along. Lot more.


V.

A week before the T.V.A went and flooded the valley the sounds stopped. The duhh-duhh. The errgh-errgh. You know? The sounds of work. When you don't got all that noise going on--that routine, I guess you could say--what can you do but think?

And because of that, I believe, that last week Pa acted different. He was trying not to, trying to act just the same. But he was trying to be the same too hard. Ma would take coffee off the stove, pour it for him and he'd say: "Thank you, sweetheart." He always said thank you. That much was the same. It's that sweetheart bit that didn't fit in his mouth right. She left the kitchen. Couldn't take it.

Tom Scott hung himself, too. Clyde Johnson, his brother Jacob. There was one more. Big fella that lived down by Hershel's store. Can't remember his name. Pa's was the only body that didn't wash up on the bank.

I never did see them after they washed up. Mrs. Scott said it was appalling. She said her husband's body was all puffed up, swollen with the water. Sheriff cut the rope off her husband's neck. She said that neck was black leading into purple leading into black. Raw. Mrs. Scott didn't live too long after that. A year or so. The shame got to her I suppose.

When folks called my pa a coward, I never argued with them. Didn't see the point. What's a coward? Somebody hang hisself? Somebody that leave his wife and boy to fend for themselves? That a coward? Call him what you want. I ain't gonna argue. All he is--is dead to me.

VI.

My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places. And it will hail when the forest falls down, and the city will be utterly laid low. Happy are you who sow beside all waters, who let the feet of the ox and the donkey range free.
         - Isaiah 32:18-20

VII.**

Robert had brown, wavy hair. He had big hands with scarred knuckles. He was missing a tooth on the right side. Three or four down from the front. You could only tell when he laughed. Every day in the field he wore the same cap, a Miller's Co-op cap, with overlapping sweat stains. He never wanted to track dirt in the house so he'd knock on the side of the house anytime he needed something from inside, like a box of matches or a knife or something. The first two knocks would be to get my attention. They'd sound urgent. The third was soft, as if to say please. When we went to bed, he always waited for me to fall asleep before he even tried. He knew his snoring kept me up.

On the last day, Robert handed me his shotgun. Says, "I love you, Mary." He was so choked up, I didn't know if he was going to kiss me. So I kissed him. Says, "I love you Robert." And that was pretty much all. We got in the buggy and headed off to my mother's.

I wanted to bury the shotgun. I knew I'd need a place to visit, a place to talk to Robert. And it had to be a piece of him. I dug the hole out behind my mother's place. Henry, he must've thought I was crazy, digging that hole the very next day. He asked me what I was going to put in there. I says the shotgun. He says, "No, ma'am, you isn't." I says, "Yes, son, I is." He says we need that gun. Get squirrels. Get rabbits. Make it count, he says.

I was pretty sore about it, but I ended up throwing my wedding ring in that hole. It being the only other thing that was him. We put the shotgun over the door frame in the kitchen.

I miss him every day. I feel it in my body. Feel it down to my bones. I imagine it wouldn't feel no different if I had lost a hand. But what makes me sadder than anything, sadder than not seeing Robert every morning, sadder than knowing he don't get to see what Henry makes of hisself, is that Robert didn't get nobody's attention.

He never said that's why he had to do it. I just figured as much. He wouldn't die for nothing. That wasn't him. The paper wouldn't say nothing about him other than he was dead. I wrote the T.V.A. Never heard nothing back. It's like the world mumbled, "I'm sorry," and just spun on. That's what they give the good men: a mumble. Killers make the front page. They're in the pictures. The good men? For the good men, the world has to keep asking for their names. The world says, "Oh, Robert, right," and "I'm sorry." But the world don't mean it. The world's got dams to build, valleys to flood. Graves to move. People to uproot. Why? Do you know? Course you don't. God hisself would shrug his shoulders and tell me that's just the way it is.

there's no rip cord --
your stuck in this stinking shell,
success measured by inches,
lipstick badged for lions,
punchlines thrown like lettuce
at the bravo males,

there's no rip cord --
the evaluation preemptive,
a crooked eyebrow and a sigh
with the lights on,
a slow grind of inadequacy
leading to a clumsy spew,

there's no rip cord --
so most bludgeon bashful cheeks
with wedding bands --
a life locked in rolling pupil sheets,
a kid, a fence, a lawyer, and
an itchy trigger finger
stirred and served with
a green olive.