pullplug and silence,
pullplug and sentence
fall from skyscraper woman --
another arrogant 12-story --
I, an edgy wrecking ball,
pullplug and dine,
pullplug and I'm divinely
base jumping to remind
I'm not ****** but old,
I'm not conniving but bored,
pullplug for ritual of ice,
pullplug for relation of stone,
sprawled in an empty bed,
while you talk in wasp nests,
I'm happy alone --
and made a worthwhile point--
identical towers are
terrible together.

curtains back           through wide glass
I watch as her silver sedan circa '99 winds
the half-circle to that black interstate
next to that 24/7 diner
under that see-through mini-gown of stars --
varying shades of infinity;
I turn on the radio to add one more.

smell of you baby, my senses, my senses be praised

into the bathroom            humming light, speckled mirror
to wash her salty tide from my forehead
and I feel young
and I feel lion
and I feel slow, contained fire
spilling from fingernail,
rising from aquamarine carpet to popcorn ceiling.

kissing and running, kissing and running away

before she left,
"sorry for making you the mistress in all of this."
and I said,
"you can pick the mistress."
her lips on my shoulder blade
then her coat in her hands,
her hand on the permissive doorknob
then cast toward the endless
not looking back,
but

maybe she will.

*no one will bar you
nothing will stand in your way
nothing
there's nothing

The young novelist wrote in his rented room, a claustrophobic nook under the stairwell, where the ceiling sobbed dust each time the owner hurried down to work or hurried up for a forgotten prescription. Shelves crammed with the owner's yearbooks and photo albums lined the walls. He typed at a long oak desk. On which, he had one plant, a gardenia, white flowers in full bloom, and a quote by Buddha on an index card in a four-by-six-inch frame. "You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection."

The sun had quit for the day. He got up and poured out his cold coffee in the bathroom sink across the hall. He dried the mug with a paper towel. Then to the kitchen, where he pressed the button on the box of Merlot, filling the recycled mug. The denouement was coming together. But he hadn't hit his stride, tapped into that secret space where words flow with natural rhythm and proper grace. His hungry or starving or emaciated mother character--he struggled with the diction, the balance between subtlety and a Coca-Cola slinger's criminal word abuse--would decide to eat her baby. Not the ******, the denouement. Critics would **** as only critics could.

He drank one cup of wine while standing in the kitchen then refilled and stepped back into his room. The plant and the Buddha quote were suggestions by his mom. She didn't like him spending so much time alone. Time alone killed her uncle. The young novelist argued it was an indiscriminate heart attack. No, his mother said, it's from all that cheese he would eat. Cheese, his mother contended, was the unitary measure of loneliness, killing you one comforting slice at a time.

Google the symbolism, his mother said of the gardenia.

Secret love.

Oh good.

That's just the first result.

I always loved them.

That was only the first. I bet they're part of the funerary tradition.

Your father used to get them once a year for Pastor Mike. Do you remember that? Around Christmas time. It was your father's way of saying we appreciate your work.

Secret love.

The quote made just about as much sense. A devout--dare he think staunch--Methodist since she was old enough to disagree and berate, his mother's selection of a Buddha aphorism begged suspicion. The young novelist assumed this was an appeal to his academic worldview, a panoramic ideology that protected him from having to value or defend anything, really. Buddhism is **** electronic dance music; Methodism is vaudeville, tired and exploitative. And if his mother was trying to be cool, that disgusted him. But if his mother was trying to meet him halfway, that excited him.

That's it, he thought, the mug now half-empty. The mother is not hungry, not starving, nor emaciated. It's a loving mother. A mother that knows the lows of living. She eats her young in an act of compromise, to protect, to prevent confusion and isolation, hell even Kraft Singles.

He sat and scooted up his chair. He wrote in a fever, a frenetic fictive dream, page by page, scene by scene through the night.

Eager, *****, I washed my hands of you
in Rippling Creek on the 1st of January --
the beginning of the beginning.

As you turned to driftwood,
the friends and cross-eyed strangers
asked what was I thinking when I let go of you.

My mouth stitched by bongwater haze
all I could do -- watch your notched body soak.

Now on the 18th of September,
sitting in Fox Hollow, USA,
the shiniest of suburbs --
the sober of the sober--
In honest,
I say I'd rather have you alive and hating me
than dead and loving me.

If I lied in the grey dawn,
it was out of love.
If I lied in the grey dawn,
I was out of truth.

I'm alone
fending off vultures prying in with fake Facebook profiles,
taking threats from fathers who long ago went blind,
and this much I promise to you and Fox Hollow, USA:

I will quarantine the past.

i didn't say a word.

the laughter was wrapping
tight about my neck.

two ex-girls were blushing,
my glance ricocheted off,
then landed on
my clasped hands.

i wasn't in charge of the party.
i only lived where it took place.

nobody had any alcohol,
everybody drank coffee or redbull;
talked with foreign
class.

i wasn't in charge of the music.
i only owned the stereo system.

so we listened to some pop-punkshit.
i started storing excuses,
in case someone asked me to dance.

the boys were all grinning.
the boys were all christians,
while they hunted their prey.

the girls were all grinning.
the girls were all christians,
while they still ran free.

i played priest.
kept my *** on the couch,
swore celibacy with every fired neuron.

lauren was gone,
and
amie threw a party.
she invited an army of
******* dressed exs
just to remind me i
hadn't outran my guilt.

the laughter started to wane,
people looked to me to stir
the conversation.

i didn't say a word.

i didn't breathe.
the weight of the room
was too heavy for me.

i cut myself from the stares,
someone asked where i was going,
my feet kept moving until
carpet
was traded for
concrete
was traded for
gas pedal
was traded for
anywhere distant.

I see the cockroach
caress the counter next to a brewing
*** of coffee, striking a chord of
crystaline sweetness,
that God and Satan could both agree upon.
In the living room,
my best friends are killing each other,
kissing each other,
falling in love,
snagging,
splitting stitches,
chalk outlines,
black mail,
and hopes for a resurrection
swirl and spin with the scent
of perfume
and coffee beans.
My phone lights up with a message
asking for some real advice,
my response is to get a new religion,
and wait for the bombs to fall.
Outside
light pollution fills the sky,
an eerie day that just won't die,
negotiating with eager streetlights,
and all-night diners.
On the corner
of 23rd and Western,
a dancing grinderman,
a homeless woman with a snaggletooth smile,
and their prize of a monkey
are cutting the night with desperation croons,
and delightful foresight.
Just past the construction on the east side of the city,
a one-legged, heathen named James W. Green
is finding solace with
a defeated, overthehill harlot,
going to and fro in a motorized sanctuary,
and grabbing change from her coin-dispensing hips.
I discover a pen embedded in the carpet,
I spend the rest of the evening split
between Midnight Man poetry,
and dictating divine apocrypha,
while once bright-eyed friends of mine
mourn over marriage, self-medication strategies,
and scrape the bottom of the barrel
with their tongues to ensure it's tangible.

Come on over,
and we'll craft a new key to the kingdom,
all I want is to cut the seams,
pulverize the patterns,
rewrite the Hamlets and all the works of Hemingway,
what are you doing now?
nothing?
great.
Come on over,
I have a handle of SoCo,
I know it's your favorite,
we'll shoot the **** and
chitty-chat about how
it's so easy to drink.
Come on over,
and brilliant minds
will strum guitars,
**** ivories,
croon with weary pipes,
all in plain sight.
Come on over,
this world wasn't made for us,
so let's force it into submission
with controversy and batshit revelry.
Let's lay on the carpet,
and swoon to the love that courses
in our veins,
let's help me to the tile
when the evening's endeavors come back up,
let's write a new Odyssey,
let's sing a new American anthem,
let's light the apartment on fire,
let's talk about how badass my girlfriend is,
what are you doing right now?
nothing?
great.
Come on over,
and I'll be your slave.
Whip me with criticism and fright,
I'll give comfort and brighten
the corners,
mix you a drink,
play you a Monk tune,
dance like I invented it,
and make you nostalgic for the 70s
like I lived each millisecond of the decade.
What are you right now?
Nothing?
Let's scare the ******,
the politicians,
the folks keeping scores,
the drunkards down the road,
self immolation?
Great.

When you hit the bottom,
come to me,
your world-savvy
Midnight Man.

When I laugh like a 65-year-old smoker,
when I fill in the lines of her face with my fingertips,
when my thoughts crash,
when I don't return my mother's calls,
when I apologize for stepping on your new shoes,
when I read Wolfe instead of socialize with the priests,
when I stare into open caskets,
when I microwave popcorn for all my friends,
when I throw nickels at Vietnam veterans' feet,
when I drink almond milk,
when I swear celibacy,
when I break oaths,
when I decide to write an epic poem that rips off "Howl",
when I browbeat idiot roommates,
when I buy books I never read,
when I hit on summer girls through text messaging,
when I wake up beside myself,
when I sleep on the tile by the toilet,
when I ******* the neighbors
when I hear someone say New Journalism died,
when I say they lied,
when I break my fourth finger against a wall,
when I listen to The Silver Jews during a heinous fog,
when I get to the table on time,
when I talk to Shorty about Waits,
                        to Zach about Springsteen and Ryan Adams,
when I'm surprised my friends actually listen to me,
when I straddle roadkill,
when I rock the proverbial boat,
when I lie with good intentions,
when I hook,
when I line,
when I sinker,
when I shift,
when I falter,
when I fix,
when I fake,
when I take the bait---
                                it's involuntary.

i made me some writer friends,
mistook the mistake,
tore the gate,
ate a ghost,
******* a ******,
slaughtered a village to gain your attention,
when you wouldn't look,
i painted myself black,
when you wouldn't look,
i told you i was a shepherd, you were sheep,
and you were going to get
eaten
by some gelatinous being
with very fine teeth.

all my writer friends,
they're all at my throat.
all my writer friends,
they sink claws, scream in my ears,
shove, shove,
tell me i need to love god above.

i made me some writer friends,
tricked the truth,
bent my back with compliments,
strung my neck with friendly kisses,
wrote all my writer friends a eulogy,
wrote a ****-all note to my mom and dad,
but i didn't buy the right stamp,
smoked a bowl,
baked a cake,
called the goat an *******,
poured a shot for a 15-year-old girl,
tickled the ivories until they stopped laughing at me,
discovered that all red-headed girls bite lips,
thanked danny elfman for scoring my bedroom scene,
continued working on an epic poem that rips ginsberg off.

all my writer friends,
tell me to stop distorting reality,
stop drinking,
stop dominoes of summer girls,
all my writer friends,
they are handing me bibles and pistols,
and i give them a nod,
a blanket,
a cup of coffee,
positive reinforcement,
and set myself on fire every night
to hear myself howl.

There will come a day,
probably a Tuesday,
you'll be hoeing and
yanking yellow weeds
by the handful, the
sun in the center of
the sky; Or you'll
be climbing through
your lover's window
while her husband
unlocks the front door,
thinking to yourself,
"Jesus, we didn't
even do anything
today. Just gave
her her insulin shot,"
and your heart
no longer pumps
so much as begs,
begs for silence,
but that's funny,
isn't it? because there
isn't any sound,
only the perceived
dissonance of a
scattered mind;
But maybe, if you're
lucky, it'll be at night,
the two of you in bed,
and she'll timidly ask
if you're hungry,
and you'll say what you
always say to that question:
yes, yes I am, and she'll
ask if you want a sandwich,
and you'll say, "I'll get it."

"You're too sweet."

"It's not a problem."

After spreading the mustard,
there'll be a pain in your chest,
mild at first, just at first, but by the
time you get halfway down the
hall you'll drop the plate
of sandwiches on the floor
and ***** in the toilet,
and you'll probably know
then what's happening;
But what did you ever do
to earn that kind of quiet,
relatively quiet, ending?
You've got a few things in mind,
but you've got a few more bad that
negate any kudos any kind
of god would award, so
let's be honest. That's what
you want, right?

Death will wake you up,
probably around 6 because
you've never been a morning
person, and when you wake
it won't be from a feeling, like
a physiological manifestation,
no, no that'd give you time
to remember Mom in the
hospital when she called
you by the wrong name.
No, Death will come in
the form of a headache,
and if your wife was
there she'd already be up,
and she'd say something
like: "Poor baby," and
get the Tylenol out of
the cabinet to the left
of the sink for you,
but she's not there, is she?
No, she's living with her
sister right now while
you "figure yourself
out" and your
kids, two boys and a girl,
all grown with families
of their own, think you've
been selfish, but what was the
word you countered with?
"Necessary." Yes, it's necessary,
you'll think as you pop three pills
in and run your mouth under the
facet, and you'll collapse, pills
rolling across the floor, stopping
under the cabinets where no one
will ever find them. Your vision
will burn white; it won't fade to black
like you thought, and your head, Jesus,
your head sounds like tools in a dryer,
but you know there is no sound, and
this is it, this is honestly it, you alone
on the floor in nothing but your
grey boxer shorts, the ones riddled
with holes that your wife told you to throw out,
and a fragmented halo of Tylenol around you.
Your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.
You'll say her name, you'll say "Eve,"
and your mouth will close itself, and your
fist will unclench itself, and you know what?
That'll be it, to borrow a phrase. Nobody
will find you for three days, and even then,
when they do, they'll wish they never had.

To a cat in a cul-de-sac,
she's a stone rose,
malaise with no remorse and a penchant for suicidal grammar.

Backsassing and backroom massaging
her way from Tanner, Illinois to Irving, Texas --
her interstate veins and her data plan brain
catered to the orifices of the weary,
and soothed the spidertongued and sleepy.
In the last postcard, she signed Evangeline,
the number of name changes: 23
in the Sunflower State alone.

A dive bar in Ulysses, Kansas
beamed as a brilliant model of
"Starved wives and stray dogs," Evangeline explained.
"I found the dark side of beet farmers
and the redemption in callused hands."

A letter came from Pryor, Oklahoma:

"Recognize the perfume?"

The only line.
Printer paper close, inhale --
my mind drifts to my former
high cheekbone'd bride, Skye.
Evangeline bedded her spindly body.
Spite, spite, spite.

Confused, I answered her call on the
first morning of December.
Tent living with a retired acrobat on
the growing shoreline of Lake Texoma,
she downed a mixed bag of his sleeping meds,
and sleeping by his side, she fantasized about me.

"I think you drank too much in my dreams.
I woke up dissatisfied."

Once she arrived in Irving, I mailed her
my edit of her suicide note.
A call to say it looked good,
and she'd let me know if she ever had
to use it.

I never heard from her again.

After murderous fall of moon, after starving cat's croon,
my body remains.

After getaway car turns to rust, after skyscraper scatters as dust,
my body remains.

After milk carton goes missing, after women disposed in kissing,
my body remains.

After the cackling retreat, after the burying buzz of her words on repeat,
my body remains.

After greeting card ages yellow, after whiskey tastes mellow,
my body remains.

After white suburb tastes of ****, after inner-city tastes black death,
my body remains.

After fifth or sixth televised war, after commercial break bore,
my body remains.

After drunken desperation, after belated bedroom exasperation,
my body remains.

After propaganda pill-popping, after church pew splinter sopping,
my body remains.

After farm fields on fire, after ***** clothes hung on wire,
my body remains.

After open casket sorrow, after sympathy borrow,
my body remains.

After winter of extreme tire, after binge and pyre,
my body remains.

After tearing nostalgic shoreline, after parking fine,
my body remains.

After dumbfound pride, after proving my hide,
my body remains--

awaiting a whitewash of hot rain,
awaiting a ***** cradle free of pain,
awaiting a salty crest daydream,
awaiting a snip from the seams and--

sweet release.

a little pitter-patter,
postponed the celebration
and clatter.

a little pitter-patter,
**** on our family gatherings
like it made no matter.

pit-pit-pitter-patter.

pit-pit-pitter-patter.

no screaming lights,
the night to
shatter.

boys went on before.
went to unjustified war.
felt the hot

pitter-patter
of hatred,
of lead.

old polititcians
produced
a downpour of pretty promises.

in the form of
"freedom"
"independence"

give 'em pride
and a rifle.
push 'em a trifle
to strengthen their hide.

pit-pit-pitter-patter.

pit-pit-pitter-patter.

postponed 'til the fifth.
so we could remember
dead boys

in convenience.

The hot dogs blossomed, split in the boiling water.
Plumes of beef stock and corn syrup billowed
toward the surface.
6:00 p.m. and the anchorwoman addressed the living room.
Three dogs for Dad in Dad's recliner, one dog for Mom
in Mom's recliner, one dog extra in case she changed her mind,
and two for me.
Yellow mustard. Relish. A dead ****** in standard definition.
"Did you do something different to these hot dogs?" Dad asked.

"Is it bad?" Mom asked.

"It's just different," he said.

But even that was the same. The same question. Same response.
Every Wednesday from '93-2005.

At 6:15, Dad would go blow his nose in the bathroom.
Put on a pearl snap button-down.
At 6:20, Mom would tell me to put on slacks.
"Good Christian men don't wear shorts to church."
That's right. But I didn't have the heart to remind,
the best of them wore dresses.

Mom would drive. Dad would be in the passenger seat.
He perpetually directed her to stay as far to the right side
of the gravel road as possible.
"One of those baboons will come flying over the hill.
Middle of the road. And if you don't get over,
we'll all die. Or at least a couple of us."

We'd get to church.
And all the old women
with their purple hair and ill-fitting
bracelets of golden-colored metal,
named after precious gemstones (Ruby, Pearl, etc., etc.),
would kiss my cheek.
We'd sit three rows back from the front.
And as the song leader began "Jesus Hold My Hand,"
all I could think about: dead hookers and hot dog juice.

A prisoner of the hallucination,
hardly happy, quick to open a floodgate of personal misery,
talking often of unique pain, of places before been,
asking only for sympathy and creative license-
Past Ring Bearer/Future Funeral Singer,
you're selfish to think you mean much at all.
What was always is,
greater wisdom is greater sorrow,
ask the holograms begging on boulevards,
ask the nihilists and the naysayers,
or even the understanding heart of Solomon.

Life is a pastoral play using pastels,
washed away and rewritten over and over again.
Your superior melancholy is the loudest cliché.
If you've got any love, cradle it like a newborn babe.
It's the reason that will make you glad you stayed.

For every headstone,
there once was a bouquet.
For every brown, breaking leaf,
there once was a summer breeze.
For every noose-a necktie,
for every slave-a free.

No need to trudge the trough,
no need to join in the polyphonic symphony
of 7 billion people drowning under the current of time,
there is only personal progression,
but you have to shut up and dream for a second.

Rachel Ray is speaking.

The room in which he lays, passed out, continues on without his permission. Dead moths feather down from the less-than-steady window unit. A cockroach delights in the cabinet. The peanut butter the man swore he wouldn't touch, on account of his lack of self-discipline, self-denial, self-awareness--maybe just self--is not sealed, the lid at an acute angle, the cockroach rubbing its antennae together.

Gluten-free fish fry with a modern, chic potato salad, Rachel Ray says.
Easy to make on a work night or after the kids get out of soccer practice.
I like easy. Do you like easy? What about fast? That's what I thought.

The power flickers as the power always does when someone on the first floor of the apartment building starts a load of laundry. The man does not stir; he dreams.

But more than that, more weighty a subject than one two three lovers or falling from heaven, the muck of common dreams, submerges the dreamer.

The scene is this: The man is a boy again, three years younger than his waking self. He is in military file with boys his age. It is raining; it is night, the sky a starless miasma of electric blue.

There are men, old men, flat-topped and heavy-browed, walking the rows, handing out hammers. The dreamer receives his.

Now, a man the dreamer knows--just knows--to be the general says, lift up your hammers. On the count of three you will strike the boy in front of you. If you should survive, congratulations. You're now a man. If you shouldn't, we say thank you and goodbye.

One, the general says.

The dreamer does not lift his hammer. Won't lift his hammer.

Two, the general says.

In anticipation of three, boys start striking, skulls fracture, an odd harmony rides the air, hundreds of arms bringing down hundreds of hammers, hundreds of minds punctured, spilling hundreds of future glories and failures.

The dreamer still stands, hammer to his side. His peers groan at his feet. He is alone.

The general, taking long, purposeful strides, approaches the dreamer. He, the general, lifts the hammer in his hand, and with a singular word, three, strikes the dreamer in the forehead.


And it's just as simple as that, Rachel Ray says, presenting the boiled potatoes, baptized in mustard and vinegar, topped beautifully with celery and finely chopped shallots. Now back to our fish.

"So you'll be in tonight? Wonderful, sweetie.
It's been far too long. Are you bringing Mattie?
Oh, I see. Are Todd's parent's good to her?
Alright, well, I love you and I'll see you at six.
Sorry seven...okay, sevenish."

The Prine place smelled of rich
lemon cleaner.
Not a cobweb could be found,
nor ***** dish, nor glass smudge.

Margaret Prine applied her blood red
lipstick--the final touch before school.

Mrs. Prine arrived thirty minutes before
anyone else, started the coffeepot in
the teacher's lounge, and wrapped up some
lesson plans.

The starting bell sounded,
she headed for her room.
Principal Hughes said,
"Good morning! Madam Margaret!"
as he always did.
Mrs. Prine, nodded cooly, grinned
lightly at the corners of her blood
red lips, and said nothing--as she always did.

At forty-five, she could turn more heads
than any head cheerleader,
and she was well aware
that beauty's power reigns
absolute.

Two young lovers draining saliva
stood outside her classroom door
dressed in matching yellow t-shirts.

"Excuse me, canaries.
Showboat your love out in nature.
Not outside my room," Mrs. Prine snipped,
calm like a seasoned surgeon.

"We're sorry--" Harvey's eyes met Mrs. Prine's.
Mrs. Prine felt a strange transfusion take hold.
The blackness started at her spine
and snaked to her skull.
Old jealousy, been awhile.

"Kaitlyn, Harvey, get to class."
Kaitlyn Mullens barely existed.
Pencil thin, thought little, and spoke less.
Kaitlyn just happened to be in Mrs. Prine's
literature class.
Mrs. Prine followed her into the room--
sizing up her shoulders, ***, and cheapshit heels
with a keen eye.

"Alright, everyone as you know, your analysis
on Catcher in the Rye motifs is due today.
No excuses."

During her lecture she couldn't keep her eyes
off Kaitlyn. The way she fidgeted incessantly;
shifted her gaze with each question asked.
Her idiot face somehow held a superior wisdom.
The dark jealousy coupled itself with
a wicked wandering mind.
A mind journeying into
the mad middle stage,
when a prime lioness
becomes declawed by calendars
and withering mirrors.

When the class left,
Mrs. Prine could not recall a single thing
she had lectured over.
She rubbed her head, sighed a low growl,
and began siphoning through the homework.
"Ah, there you are."
She grabbed a bleeding red ink pen,
then proceeded to massacre the essay.
"Plagiarism, plagiarism. Lazy, lazy."

In the waking, in the wrong,
I stumble -- spitting synonyms for love
daring the scattershot night to take control
to steer me into the early morning bedroom
of anyone other than my own,
and over the phone breaking, over with biting
the mimicking face of former promise ring holders
and front pew sitters I ask the sun to emerge gently,
to kiss my forehead, scramble up eggs--
wearing my oversized t-shirt, cotton underwear, and
an apron left behind by the sun's mother,
but as night turns and walks away,
no bright sun replaces--
instead it is that grey, it is that gaunt
overcast haze that never shows teeth,
only hisses, "How's the routine going?"

In the waking, in the wrong,
hands pull denim and throat itches for shouting rebuttal,
but a man never won against the eternity of the sky,
so I lower my eyes, spin madly into why why whys,
a beautiful woman between pavement and sky jogs past
and I see myself drinking coffee with her and grinning
at what our elderly parents don't know,
but before the words fall from lips,
her feet, legs, and hips wisp
into the early morning mist,
the overcast sky whispers to the meadowlark
above my head,
I open the door to my home as the meadowlark begins to laugh.

Billowed and pasted, rollicked and wasted,
the night takes hold and Samantha, you remember her,
she's smoking again. This is her last pack though.
Drinks poured. Drinks spilled. Kate and I are talking
like people with scheduled late afternoon love affairs. There's
a car alarm going off in the distance. I love this blouse. Is it new?
No. It looks new. I love your perfume. You aren't wearing any?
Must be a natural—and the first to arrive at the party, Chris and
Evan, they're the first to leave, and we listen intently as one, or maybe both, tumble down the stairs. There should be waivers for second floor
apartment parties. Kate, you deserve so—I know. I know. You've got this light. Jesus. I'm just saying. Is it radiant? Yes, it's radiant. And they're lighting their drinks on fire now in the kitchen, some concoction of amaretto and 151 and a kickback of Coors. The flames reflect in their eyes, their cheeks a soft amber, and most of them are smiling, not sincerely, but when was the last time you could give yourself over completely to joy? There's a siren in the distance. Someone says they're coming for us. I'm going to the bathroom. Do you need help? And there's this ceiling fan with LCD Christmas bulbs strung around the blades. A myriad of claustrophobic yellows and whites and blues. Have you seen that video of the ****** having a baby? And he brings it up on his phone. Someone says, Oh my god I love this song from the bathroom. I hadn't noticed the music before now. Drink this. What is it? You'll see. And Samantha she says she's got to step outside for a second. And someone drops a hookah coal on the beige carpet. There goes the deposit. There's incense. There's a Scentsy. There's Febreeze being sprayed liberally. Can you drive? Can you? Do you want to? You know? I've ate a lot today. The songs keep getting skipped. Parquet Courts, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Chvrches, Miley Cyrus—wait, wait put on some SWIFTY. We're going to fire up in my closet if you want to join. It's a walk-in. Evan's back now. He kicks a mirrorball across the kitchen tile with Chris, who's also back now. Where's Samantha? She's smoking. She shouldn't be alone. You remember last—That won't happen again. I'm just saying. Well, you can stop saying. Sirens again. Closer. We're in the walk-in. Kate tugs on my sleeve. I take a pull off the bronze pinch hitter. Do little circles with my head. ****, she says. What? It all starts fading out, the rush of dark, the rush of light. Someone says trash can. Sirens. I'm just trying to—Shut up. I'm just trying to—Shut up.

sorrows,
shaved scalp,
sorrows,
forehead heavy with ash,
sorrows,
scabs scraped with broken pottery,
sorrows,
all the gods stopped playing fair,
sorrows,
with cold sons and contradictory friends,

sorrows,
for the saints,
sorrows,
for the satans,
sorrows,
for citing both.

sorrows,
at the sound of laughter,
sorrows,
at the touch of neighbors,

sorrows,
for losing my mind,
my maker,
my family,
sorrows,
while everyone else is content
to live in ****** sitcoms
and safety-net salvation.

Yeah, I guess you could say that. I seem to be past the hex. I have a job again, one I like. I'm teaching. But I can't help but hear that song from Wizard of Oz play over and over in my head. No. Ha ha. I wish it were that one. No, it's the one that kicks up as they leave the poppy field. "You're outta the woods, you're outta the woods." That song is so hopeful yet undercut by something looming, inevitable, a bigger fall to come.

Sure, I still think of her.

But what I was getting at earlier is that I feel like I'm at this point in my life, this middleplace, where the abstraction of love, the mysticism of the body, all of that ****** fog seems to be clearing. The people around me are plucked white, devoid of any raw, genuine sentiment. They view the body in a way so clinical. I only hear of its limitations or its capacity to bear children.

Peter Pan Syndrome? Maybe. But if the body is reduced to its most rudimentary boundaries and functions and not treated as an instrument of erasure or alchemy, then what's the point?

Yes, she and I talked about kids, but that was always so far away. At this point, I don't know that I want them. Her? That's hard to say. I'll concede that the happiest moments of my life involve her. But, and I see the irony here, on some fundamental, unsexy level, we enabled poor behaviors, addictions. We both suffered from depression and didn't know how to dig each other out.

I never see her in a negative light though. You look surprised. I don't. There she is and there are all other women. She's fifty feet tall in my mind. A femme titan. Whipsmart, funny, kind.

Torrential, lightning and a river on Decatur,
straightened tie, loaded gun, staggered
down to house 423, a big wet bottle in my hand,
a choir of angels in my head, I confessed to you
that I never much cared for Frost, possibly both
roads lead to an affair with me, time means little more
than air, cotton candy fever dreams, melting wedding bands,
a stain on your white dress, tender, torn up, seeing
Jesus on the cross at 3 am, it's Tuesday, borders, lines, barriers,
milk cartons, hamster wheels, the sun stayed away for fear
of witnessing this itchy massacre, plans? I find them trite,
quick to betray, overdrawn bank accounts, flat tires,
17-year-old quick *****, the wrinkles in the mirror,
the road back home, detour, detour, going down south
by way of 35, oceans of highways, shorelines of grief,
steady shots of grace in the passenger seat, where have
I smelled that before? Change your perfume, if I kiss you,
it needs to be strange, frightening, splitting the seams of
norm skull and disemboweling the sanctity of routine,
it's easy to put up the picket fence, easier yet to paint it black,
but behind the curtains of my .32 caliber grin,
lies a quivering child waiting for ma to get off work,
babysit me, hospital gowns, looking for lost blue crayons,
the bouquet rots on the windowsill, remember the first kiss?
Doped on caffeine, sleepless because Shorty partied too hard,
tile floor, porcelain, your strapless top undressed itself,
earthquake waltz, borderline insane, milk thistle,
both roads lead to an affair with me.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
are children that hate them quite a lot.

your house won't save you.
your finely pressed slacks won't save you.
your tan, ageless wife won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
is hunger nonstop.

your bill of rights won't save you.
your republican party won't save you.
your daddy of great renown won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
is circular plot.

your ****** won't save you.
your tax deductible donation won't save you.
your patience in line won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
are a few friends at a future funeral.

Glancing around that neverplace, the airplane cabin,
indulging that edge-of-time feeling,
your head resting on the cool window,
you see her.
She rolls a piano onto the tarmac.
You wait to be bused to the takeoff starting line.
She's fuzzy in the distance, a soft shape getting softer,
in a blue hoodie and blue jeans, perhaps barefoot.
No one stops her.
You feel like someone should.
A dry swift wind beats across the flats.
She stops pushing, the piano in a suitable place.
A man in an orange vest drags a row of stairs behind the piano.
She sits on the third step, lifts the fall board.
You cannot see her hands. She's playing now.
A noisy collective boredom surrounds the cabin.
And yet this. Just outside.
From your vantage, it's not music, nor is it spectacle.
It's suppressed beauty, a dimmed surprise,
and your hands ache and you long for the wind,
for her bright song, for a brief dance
beyond this inconsiderable window.

A barbaric itch slithers underneath my collar.

While chairs scuffle upon overgrown tile,
the brutality of our chance meeting gets
my finger nails scraping--

you keep tossing what's left of your hair,
as you siphon through the greasy grime
of your fought for fast food,
and rattle my cage with foreign sentiment--

you smirk to break my narrowing gaze,
did you wear that same black blouse
when we launched into our old mess?
The one we left on your bedroom floor,
and I really, really want to know
where that mess could go--

when I dream,
we simplify.
You are free of clothing,
and I'm free to feed on your body and time,
the ache satisfies,
but as children run past us,
as acne teens screech--
the plight of getting hot
and never off
roars in the midnight corridors
of my starving brain.

One touch--
a broken nail,
a sharpened tooth,
a swift tug of my scalp--
could really, really help
me cope with your amorous toxicity.

Funny. I have a similar problem. When a waitress drops in to take a drink order, I can never look her in the eye. Guilt, I suppose. There’s nothing she’s doing for me I can’t do for myself. Legs work. Hands work. Let me walk to the water dispenser and press the glass into it. Let me pick up my food. Let me carry it to my table. You take it easy, sweetheart. So, instead of meeting her pupils, I find myself reading and re-reading her nametag. A silent mantra. Tara. Tara. Tara.

Thank you for saying I should be “held by my edges.” That’s a candy-coated take on the truth. A more accurate description would have been “*******.” Oh, the toxic mix of shame, alcohol, and letter writing. I’m a new man, though. Cologne and everything. I’m even done drinking. Well, after I finish this beer. Still had one in the fridge. Anyway, I’m sorry.

No, women like Heather don’t disappear cleanly. Or with grace. In the silent moments, she always looked at me like I might hit her. She’ll probably tell friends I did. Everyone enjoys a good story. She called Friday. Said she’d taken some X. Dancing on her couch. I could join her or just watch. I just hung up. Did I tell you she’s really into Anime? And she attaches faux foxtails to her belt. I’m not sure if one of those traits is responsible for the other. Wish she didn’t know where I lived.

I wish I kept loving you,
when times got rough.
Memories flicker
when you sit near me,
but I'm too burnt out
for them to fully light.

When you talk soft,
I get sentimental for the slow nights.
Dusty '60s tracks,
blankets,
and couches we never could fit right.

I hope he keeps your smile wide,
I hope he holds your hand while you stroll through malls,
I hope he buys frames for the pictures you make him.

I thought I could run from us,
then it would all make sense,
everything novel,
everything pure,
and in the brief time of our parting
I have felt little, other than used.

Eve's on Highway 70.
Been on it for some four hours.
After dialing the ten digits on
the cracked cell screen,
she turns it on speakerphone.
It rings once.
To the side of the road, a sign reads,
World's Tallest Prairie Dog.
It rings twice.
She wonders how long the wind
has been red; how long until
the red sun gives up.
It rings three times.
There are birds flying up ahead.
She wants to call them by name.
But what good would it do?
It rings four times.
He picks up.
Her lips are chapped.

I'm fine, Jay. Thanks.
Just calling to tell you
that I'm in the state.

What state?

Your state?

What do you mean?

I'm in Colorado.

What? What are you doing here?

Am I not welcome?

No, no. It's not that. Why didn't you tell me?

I wanted it to be a surprise.

I hate surprises.

Nobody hates surprises.

I do.

She's silent for a beat.
The birds are still ahead;
she races toward them but never gains.

Why didn't you tell me? he asks.

I just told you.

I think something's wrong with my phone.
I can hear an echo.

I have you on speaker.

Why?

My internal mic is broken.

Internal mic? What does that mean?

I don't know.

Where are you going?

Fort Collins. I have family out there, I guess.
Some cousins. Are you on the way?

Am I on the way to Fort Collins?

Yes.

No.

That's not what I want you to say.

What do you want me to say?

Just try again.

Eve, I don't think this is a good idea.

Try again.

What?

Try again.

I can hardly hear you. There's wind or something.

With her index finger she nudges the volume ****
to no effect. She puts her knee on the steering wheel.
She rolls up her window.

Say what I want you to say, she says.

I'm on the way, Jay says, if you take the long way.

I'll be there by six. What should we do?

You could start by apologizing.

So could you, Jay. What should we do?

Say that one more time--the phone.

What should we do when I get there?

We'll figure something out.

I hope, she says.

the door opens to Neko's Grill
I turn, as I do with the opening of any door,
expecting it to be Anna, expecting her
face to go from that smilerest to that
statuesque, expecting that stone
to send me to her side in the hospital,
the time when the pills took too fast
and she didn't carry it out,
hospital gown, grey dots, white backdrop
my glasses filled up
and I watched my tears land on Anna's
cheek,
she wiped them away
"I love you" didn't bridge the space
in the waiting room
I poured a cup of coffee for her grandpa
I brimmed it
stupidly
and his shaky hands burned
and he told me he couldn't talk to me
and I knew why
so when he bellowed
the whole agony of the whole
human famile smoldered out of him
he leaned against me
we both burned
but the woman who walks
into Neko's isn't Anna
she's a decade older at least
her brunette hair tucked into
a knitted cap
she looks confident
quiet, if a person can look quiet,
and I wish she would say
I forgive you

There were two packs of Pyramid Reds,
three packs of Marlboro 100s,
a trendy girl's white knitted cap with a zebra print bow attached,
and a banana flavored ****** scattered across Drew's dashboard.
I met him at Delta,
the restaurant where he worked,
which was more nursing home than modern sock hop.
He lit up,
told me we were bringing denim jackets back,
and then dragged me to pick up a bird feeder for his mom.
"How is um-****, what's her name, rahhh...Rachel?
he asked two stoplights into our journey,

"She's really good, man. Things are just going swimmingly."

"She wants my nuts."
Drew thought every girl wanted his nuts.
It had become a regular catch phrase.
While it was his ritual to begin our talks
inquiring about my girlfriend,
it was mine to ask what the number
of ladies he had slept with was up to.

"Oh, I'm not for sure, baby. Let's see, there were twelve
at the restaurant so far this year-"

"Twelve?"

"Yeah," he said grinning,"my ******* managers had to give me a
talk."

"They gave you a talk for having a bomb *** life?"

"Not exactly. They were telling me to lay off the underage ones.
Lawsuits and **** like that."

"Awesome."
Just then some hefty white woman
with her hair in a bun ran a stop sign and
cut in front of Drew,
he didn't swear,
nor did the jackassery interrupt his flow,
he simply threw up a hard *******,
and continued forward.

"The total is definitely over thirty. Thirty, thirty-five,
somewhere in there."

We stopped at one of those breakfast chains,
that synthesize the ancient all-night diners
of American mythos.
Two for the smoking section,
and we were placed in a corner,
across from a burnt out
workingman,
who smelled of **** and aggression.
Drew chain smoked,
while we both burned through cup
after cup of coffee.
Drew had ****** two of the waitresses
that were on duty,
one came by and chitty-chatted with him.
Her name was Beth.
Someone broke her nose when she was seven,
she had a fella who was a waiter there as well,
both talked to Drew like he was a cousin or
an old high school friend.
Our waitress had blonde hair.
She was twenty-four,
but raising her sister's ******* child,
and supporting her mother on
tips was cutting lines into her
tiny face.
Drew was talking smooth to her,
no doubt he slept with her before the
end of the week.
When she left he said,
"Isn't she sweet?
She's a ******* sweetheart.
Do you think I gotta chance with her?"

"Yeah, man. You're being a real pro."

"I thought so," he said as he took a deep inhale,
then let the smoke glide between his smiling teeth.

Drew waged a political war that lasted 10 cups of coffee
and one pack of cigarettes.
The first casualty was the ******* that drive 350s and don't
have a hitch.
The second was the wealthy.
Glen Beck.
Capitalism.
American ignorance mistaken as patriotism.
Needless to say,
we got along wonderfully.

We talked of old times,
like a couple of old guys,
and I was surprised at how distance
had shaped our views so similarly.

"You're lucky, man. You got yourself a nice girl, all settled n' ****.
All I got is ******. I just **** them, they fall in love,
and I put 'em in their place and go to the next one.
It's ******* sad."

"It's not sad, you just haven't found the right lady, I suppose," I said trying to make him feel lighter.

"Nah, I probably already met her, and just ****** her.
I don't even respect the girls I sleep with enough to
take them back to my place. Most of them I **** behind Delta,
a couple of times by that Walgreens off Kickapoo, Wal-Mart,
Denny's, um **** even behind that Petopia store."

"Behind Petopia? That needs to be the name of your book."

He was lean,
a hungry coyote,
tattoo'd, cynical,
probably coming down
from smoking a bowl.

"I dig your tattoos."

"Thanks man. I got a few,
I'd like a few more,
but that **** costs a lot of money."

His hair was shaggy,
reaching for his shoulders,
he hadn't shaved in a couple
weeks.

"What does that Asian script
on the back of your neck mean?"

"Oh,
it means Black.
Ya know?
Like my last name.
It's like a ******' football jersey.
Just in case I forget my name."

We walked down
darkened corridors,
he made me nervous.
Not like I'm going to
**** my britches nervous,
but that this guy is older,
wiser, not afraid to say
whatever the hell he wants,
and probably doesn't want
to waste his time, kinda way.

"Nah, dude.
Burch threw me a bone on this one.
I picked up most of my writing from
taking a course on Creative Writing
with Professor Jamison.
The dude was ******* legit.
He went to Yale or some ****.
Two Ivy Leagues anyway.
You would'uh loved him.
He made bank too.
90 grand,
more than anybody else I
know on this campus."

He talked satire,
he talked poetry,
he seemed ready to devour
any unsightly barrier in his way.

"It was nice to meetcha'"

"Hell yeah, you take care of yourself."

Why do I have a feeling that Mr. Black is going to drastically
alter
my life?

Anna and I leave Jesus on the cross, on the jumbotron.
The blood pooled. The blood cooled. The bloodbath cleansed the flock.
I watch Anna from the passenger seat.
She's silent and salvation.
Rain falls in diamonds on the windshield,
bouquets of streetlights turn the transparents
to rubies, to emeralds.
She turns off the headlights.
Running half-blind on abandoned interstate,
Anna's silent, Anna's grace, Anna's forgiveness.
No more lamps overhead.
No more exits to be found.
Only Anna and I at peace in the void.

whistle, call out,
bait me in,
i'm super ******* cool,
i can't forgive,
what i can't forget,
whistle, call out,
the neurons fire mad,
the adrenaline screams,
grinding teeth,
i'm super ******* cool,
whistle, call out,
taunt, bait,
think of your throat,
of your crippled arrogance,
listen,
i'd love to spill your blood,
i'd love to make you hate every breath,
but i'm super ******* cool,
so i'll watch from afar
as you spill your own,
going mad at the lack
of a response,
at the lack of an ally,
i don't have time to
pretend,
to be bait,
to be horned,
to get drawn in and *******,
i'm brando in a white t-shirt,
i'm fonzie decked in leather,
and you're a summer *****
whose season is in passing.

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

fingertips trace the
splintered podium.

clear my throat,
once,
twice.

"We shoulduh' seen this coming."

great opener.

"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.

Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.

Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.

Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,

and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.

We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.

We all got divorced.

We all got into politics.

Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.

Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.

We shoulduh' seen this coming.

But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.

The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.

Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.

they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.

"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.

Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.

Get stoked for the funeral pyre."

all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.

no one even got a chance to applaud.

the sea comfortable in its trespass
swallows the rocky cliffs
then the white sand beaches
then the bicycles lounging in the yard
then the high-rise apartments
the sea comfortable in its trespass
takes no notice of costal child
with kite in hand squinting for
opposite shore in wonder
am I the last kid with a kite left?

Tim sounds nice. I mean reads nice. By what you described, he seems like he treats you alright. Rock n' roll. Movin' on. Proud of you.

Sorry he found that letter I wrote you a few weeks ago. Though it means a lot you kept it. Aren't remnants of past lovers interesting? It's not enough for us to take pieces of each other as we press forward, but we also have to leave little trinkets to remind of the good, the bad, and indifferent times.

Tara left her favorite burnt, metallic necklace with a blue buddha charm embedded in the carpet when I lived at 2307. Thousands of hairpins were hidden throughout the place when Sam and I split. You threw that gypsy bracelet in the grass by the streetlight -- the one I got you in Colorado.

Karen didn't leave much with me. Instead certain shirts and pajama pants of mine -- became hers. She put a smell on them. I still can't wear the clothes; though I also can't get rid of them. I'm a hoarder. Keep all the memories for myself.

Do you ever dream of me?

No, I haven't seen Easter Island again. I looked Sunday night at O'Brien's. I imagine she was in one of those modern restaurants --  Japanese trees, Muzak -- with her white napkin folded neatly in her lap, drinking ice water, and humoring some fast-talking crazer who has a snowball's chance in hell with her. If I ever find the energy, I'd like to be that crazer.

Yes, I'm still night driving. I've got a big adventure planned for tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it. Tell me something honest in your next letter. Something you're afraid to tell me.

I'll learn to accept Tim. I promise.

The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.

she was needy.
i was broke.


she was a mistake,
and i was tacked on
like the punch line to
a bad joke.


bought her chocolate milk and pop tarts,
bought gas and cough drops.


she said she'd pay me back in kisses.
kisses are nice,
but kisses aren't legal tender.


she made me dream death.
why would i hang on to her,
when i couldn't even afford the rope
to hang myself.

Sometimes I cry
when I think of him
unbuttoning those
orange shorts
that make your
*** look so good.

Sometimes I sext
you and your girlfriends,
but let's blame that
one on the drink.

Sometimes I smoke
to celebrate one of
your many deaths
in my ****** collection
of unpublished
short stories.

Sometimes I hope
you'll apologize
to me for ruining
my name.

Sometimes I want
you to hold me against
the wall and push--
until your bony body
passes through me,
and I turn you to waste.

Sometimes I call
to ask what's off limits,
so I know where to
set my goals.

Sometimes I buy
that cheap red wine
you loved so much,
and drink it all
in a night -- just
to watch it go empty.

Sometimes I curl up to
that lumpy, stained,
blue pillow, and
pretend it's you.

Sometimes I dream
of raising a family
in a small house
near Pacific Beach.

Sometimes I nearly
smother myself
with that blue pillow.

The conspiracy's got holes, water coming in, and
everything you say on the burner, they're going
to use against you in a court of law or as
a bargaining chip to go a level or two up,
but if you get caught, who can you give up?
Whose real name do you know? You feel
it all closing in. The black sedan whose
make and model you can never peg
is always parked off to the side.
Some days it rains, and you
try to remind yourself
to cherish this. You've
killed one man, been
asked to **** two more.
The sun sets uptown and
the jewelry stores close
and the bars open,
the ones with oak tables
and longbeards serving drinks,
the ones where they look at
you funny when you pay
in cash, the ones where
the women talk loudly
about their shapes
being real, about beauty
and food and thigh gaps,
their world entire.
What a funny set of problems,
you think to yourself as
the third beer hits your head
just right and headlights
come in through the window.
You walk out the back through the kitchen
into the neighborhood with
bikes left in the street. Two, three porch lights
on. Watchers east. Watchers west.
You break your phone on the hood of a stranger's car.
You run for the first time in months.
You run past the coffee shop and the frozen yogurt shop
and the artisan haircut shop and the tattoo shop with fair trade
ink. You find yourself at your sister's on 23rd. You tie off
in the living room while your nephew yells at the
Xbox and the LCD. It's curtains. Uneven.
The warmth and softness of synthetic women swirl around
you. There's a word for this. Maybe two. You swear when
you wake you will be hunter. No more defender. No more
user. Hunter King. Dark Secret on the Wind.

I was suckling the barrel
of my grandpa's favorite gun,
when Gloria strolled in,
head held high,
like a 12-story *****.

"What the **** are you doing?"

"Nothin', sweets, I was just wondering about the taste."

Gloria mixed herself a Mt. Vesuvius,
unplugged the telephone,
turned on the tv,
dug her nails into my weary couch,
over and over.

I didn't ask how her day went,
she didn't call me babycakes,
we didn't touch,
I just watched as she changed channels,
sunk further into oblivion,
I traced my kneecap with
grandpa's gun,
it was something to do, I suppose.

"You know you got to get out," she finally said.

I looked like a suicidal *******, baptized in cobwebs,
and every word I threw at every guest teemed parasitic.
I hadn't left the apartment for awhile,
it seemed like every time I did, I would collide with
some enemy, and my bloodlust was subsiding.
I didn't like it to be so awfully one-sided.
"Hey, look at me," she demanded.

Maybe the neurons are crippled,
can't cross the synapse,
or perhaps it's this culture that
listens only to the false priest in its head,
but when no one else around you is living,
it makes the whole gig seem a bit pointless.
"Gloria, sometimes it's better just to die."

Eve, may you leave the skeletons of snakes behind.
May 8 o'clock come before 9,
and despite a promise to yourself to wait,
start pouring the wine and write.
Write eloquent, hallucinogenic, and as the wine chimes in --
laugh as you catch the words growing larger on the page.

Eve, may the wind crawl in, rustling the blinds.
May the paint on your latest oil dry,
and when the relevant kids ask you what it means,
tell them you're just happy to be here,
and daydream of being carried by the cradling wind into the amethyst sky.

Eve, may your memory serve to keep the delicate moments stored.
May you recite the holy luck and beauty of each calendar page,
as a 4-year-old recites an entire storybook
her gentle mother has read and re-read to her.
May you sleep like that child in the comfort of fervent love.

Eve, may you dream beyond the cosmos, beyond God's heaven.
May you find rest in your own empyrean visions.
Let the beasts of the field and the birds of the air take on new names --
the monikers you choose -- let the the writhing oaks and the monuments of man
bow in a celebration of your quiet grace.

And Eve, when you wake, may you wake like a giant.
May you be 60-feet tall and still in awe of all you see,
incapable of escaping the grandeur -- indulgent only in empathy.
May the sons and daughters of this sphere raise hymns.
May the sons and daughters of this sphere find only solace in your shadow.

Eve, may you take another notice of me.
May you tell me apart from Adam, Alan, or Allah.
The rib you returned -- I never wanted back.
So, when the calendar runs out of pages, I pray the past is past.
In an act of divine forgiveness, I exit counting you as a friend.

when you pulled my trigger,
did you smile, lioness?

ricochet, ricochet.

did i want you?
for security i suppose.

when you kiss him,
will you think of me?
i doubt it.

feed my self-loathing machine.
it's hungry.

all the nights
are all mine.

all the girls,
they got no time.

all the nights
will find you in his arms.

all the girls
will conspire against me, alright?

manufacture fine ******* feelings,
smile quazi-sincere,
i never, you never, i never meant anything.

i fell for you fast, lioness.

that is always a turn-off.
i should have been an *******.
that's your type.
*******.

i kissed you.
but it didn't matter.
your breath went heavy,
but it doesn't matter.
i ended a relationship for you,
but it doesn't matter.

it's a fashionable game,
i fronted as a washed up bukowski-type,
and when you found out i was nice
you disowned me,
understandable move.

copingstrategies.copingstrategies.copingstrategies.

bring­ on the vultures.
i'll make them songs,
coffee,
and friendly emotions.

pick me apart,
promise i can watch.

pick me apart,
promise i can watch.

let the beautiful boy tame you, lioness.
your hundreds of miles away, anyhow.

let me turn to vapor.
don't talk to me.
don't ask around about me.
answers will frighten.
answers will anger.

i am barely alive.
you were selfish.
i am barely alive.
you were selfish.

you never paid me a compliment
only talked of all the other lovers.
you never cared what i had to say
only talked of your own experience each day.

i thought you were different in your own way.
your different in the same way.
turn to grey.
**** him and your pain away.

i ended everything to begin again.
i ended everything and nothing started.
i ended and found myself in the abyss.

hellhole, hope you aren't happy.
i'm malaise.
i'm the wasp nest.
if you ask to rekindle.
i'll douse myself,
and set myself to flame before
you ever get near.

don't anybody touch the remnants of me.
i want to die this way.
i want to die everyday.
i miss the comfort of everything.

i don't have the energy to start again,
nor do i have the self-esteem to move my feet,
i was wrong,
no dancing at my end times,
just knives,
fevers, and cobwebs.

i laughed out of irony.
i laughed out of spite for me.
goodnight everything.

He's giving her a piggyback ride across Harvey Avenue.
She's barefoot, her legs tightly wrapped around his waist.
In her hands a killer pair of heels click against each other.

She whispers something to him and laughs.
I want to know what it is--but to know would
unravel both space and time--it would make this
Monday night, in this anodyne, red-brick district
partly mine. Walking past, I let them go with a nod
and a "beautiful night."

All of my friends were there
and their friends, too
and the friends of my friends'
cousins and their dogs
and their all-seeing aunts crammed into
ill-fitting blouses with
their husbands in New York or L.A.
and their inbetweens sending them
***** texts and someone, I think it was
my mother, she said, Why don't you
lay in the river
And I said, Of course
The leaves fell
The birds sang a four-note phrase
and all my friends, the best ones,
they tossed half-empty packs
of gum, flower petals, quarters, pens--
anything they had in their pockets
As I passed by them I said, Remember
when we ate the poison berries and
said our goodbyes. Remember when
I played pitcher on our t-ball team.
Remember when Drew took the electric
fence to his crotch. Remember when
we threw Josh's library book into the rain.
Remember when I learned to ride a bike in
sixth grade. Remember when I kissed
you on the backseat of the school bus.

And they said, Yes. And they laughed.

Those were good times.

My brother, he was there too, he hopped
in the river and gave me a push, said,
I'll see you around the next bend.

Life number two, I said.

Life number two.

One look at your face
                     and you own me.
One touch of your skin,
                     and you burn through me.
One wandering eye,
                     and I say, "Yeah, that's fine."

the
last
love
poem
for
now.

on edges of swing set of summer of child
I grow -- a rust abloom while ghosts
of women once called "mother" do push
a wind a creak a falling leaf feathering
downward, candied sentiment traveling
forward

for hope for empty swing to fill to turn
the chronometer back to *12 noon, March 6, 1972

I guess I saw her at the third and final bar I went last night. You would have liked watching her. Her face cut like stone -- a reincarnation of an Easter Island statue -- and like those statues, if you kept digging I'm sure she had a body underneath.

From my end of the bar, it looked like she ordered a gin and tonic. She barely drank it, but that's not to say she didn't touch it. She stabbed the ice repeatedly with a cocktail stirrer as if to say give me something to look forward to.

You were right about riding into bars lone wolf. It only works during the afternoon. That's all there is then. Thirsty wolves. But at night, everyone is paired off neatly and wrapped into each other like pretty little presents with shiny red bows.

I agree about the crippling lack of ***. But unlike you, I wouldn't call myself frustrated. Just crippled. And I know if you'd been at the bar, you would have told me to approach Easter Island, but I've been lonely so long that I've grown addicted to the feeling. It's a blanket of sorts. And it's been cold lately.

A man sat next to me at the bar. Corduroy jacket, red sweater over white collared shirt. His hair messily spiked, his face messily shaved, and he kept chatting up a sad-eyed woman in a sadder black dress. I don't remember much of the conversation because I was trying not to eavesdrop. He did say something about time though. He said it was all a straight line. That's the reason we forget things. Progress. Progress makes the people we used to be peel off. The molted skin gets carried off by the wind. I thought you'd like that. Though I don't agree with it.

If time is a straight line, why is what I had for breakfast right next to a three-year-old memory of sleeping beside Karen two weeks after our divorce. It all seems disjointed to me. Not random. But at least partially broken.

Easter Island wore purple pants. I forgot to mention that. She also had a bronze crucifix around her neck. And long brown curls. The cross would have been off-putting if I'd seen her a few months ago, but as you know I'm trying to fix myself. A little dose of religion might be good for me. If nothing else at least a dose of wild kindness.

I apologize for talking so much about myself. So, return the favor. This morning, I read from that Callahan book you got me. The chill in the air made me wish you were in the bed beside me. Reading over my shoulder. Though that was in another window of time. One next to my memory of you putting cinnamon in the coffee grounds before you started a brew.

For what it's worth, I miss you.

My face distorted,
my mouth twisted and
shrieked under the broken remnants
of night.

I shook, shook, shook.
I finally wasn't numb.

Be thankful you didn't see her.
her face did shatter,
her fragile frame quaked,
in her driver's seat immobile,
directionless once again.

We talked outside of coffee shop,
she was cute,
I looked like hell.
"No, no you can't."
She said in reference to my eye's honesty.
"I was supposed to be strong."
She quivered,
Her mouth locked open,
she was more real than I had ever seen her,
through her cracking voice
she spoke with absolute wisdom,
and it magnified my misery.

The previous night found us
on the stairs outside my apartment.
We smoked,
she started a heavy talk,
I was relaxed,
introspective,
ready to release the last
bit of cancer she swore
she could eat.

Two moments cut deeper than
anyone has ever cut me.

The first was when she released
a melancholy howl,
and spit, "You're my best friend"
through the tears and the runoff
from her nose.

The second is when she threw the bracelet.
The reminder would be too much,
then she somehow slipped the "Be the change" ring
into my back pocket.

I didn't want them as reminders either.

I put them next to the mosaic she made me.
The one I never bought a frame for,
the one that pleaded our favorite Beatles track,
"Don't Let Me Down".

I built her up
to let her fall.

A Tower of Babel to wreck through
                                                         ­               secrets,
                                         ­                               nomadic revelry,
                                                        ­                and speaking in barricades.

And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown *******," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."