Man, if there was ever a time
where those two hands mattered
more than just pointing
out the obvious or tracing vague
memories on paper in swoops,
zig-zags, draw-backs, or the capital
cursive "Q" that still eludes me, it's
now. 6:26 A.M., and I haven't slowed
down since 9:20 yesterday
when my girlfriend gallivanted
about her room, her ******* perked
before me.
*******, she looked so good.
We, my friends and I,—the ones
I wrapped in cellophane and tissue
paper two years ago to take
out, reminisce, and put back
whenever I forgot their faces—
got in my boat of a car / bathroom
tile white / and drove through
thick I-80 fog to search South
Side for Santa's front rotor biplane
dropping Christmas joy mustard
gas down molded-brick, soot-caked
chimneys to get people in the mood
for a day or two before the egg nog's
spiced *** negligee stopped feeding
their stocking stuffer lungs and the blisters
that decked the halls like boughs of death.
Then we sat—I, uncomfortably on my car
keys,—by the bar, drinking refills that filled
the IBM-print bill $60 worth of Sprite Pepsi
Huckleberry Lemonade. My one friend
leaned over our cornucopia of unfinished
wings and said that he and the bartender
had been exchanging loaded gun glances.

Neither would ease the trigger,
or even aim well.

She could've been eyeing the waitresses
working the floor like a dart game.
Sharp when your drink's low and feathered
by pathetic tips. We stopped by Lyco. Lynn—
softly steeled—still sung her circular saw blues.
Baby, don't cut me so deep. Just let my girders
meet the street. Let me feel small trees and admire
nice cars signing their makes in last week's thin snow.
We took away two cups of coffee, some Modernist talk,
and a salt & pepper flannel past Market, Maynard,
and slowly spoiling milk to the Mansfield exit.
Over the occasional window defrosting,
we talked premature families, North Carolina
classmates, prison sentences, and that MU
***** who hates my guts. They're out there,
and we're here in this box going seventy-five
and skipping exits like rope.
Double-dutch dual-enrollment college credit
transfers, losing Foundation money talks
****, but can't leave her grudges on the rock
salt steps we sulked up. Hallways with
carpets and our cars parked poolside,
but we chose air conditioning over breast-
strokes. My God, would some lonely preteens
**** for that. Metal detectors to detect
our insecurities and greasy faces full
of acne acne potential. Potential some
didn't use. Potential that went wasted.
Potential that could've gotten them out
of this miserable hole, but instead rented
them out a sad shack on the outskirts—
nowhere near suburbs—of town
where they could inhale
the Ox Yoke's smoke stack laying fog
down to the county line.
Galeton High School, regrettably,
here's to you.

Never give up on love (unless you're being a creep.)

Carbon copy wolves approach a baby in a carriage,
ripping checks from checkbooks, checking
stock quotes, let me rock those Dockers for a day,
and pay me garbage cash to clean your pool.
I'd never let my money turn me into you, you
conquered bastion of a man, you broken pipeline
leaking seltzer water laugh tracks on repeat.
I seat myself behind your mother as we watch you
hate the world you pay to **** and juggle clients
for applause. I hope you dig your own memorial
with dollars that you stole, and make a million
off the tears that come to decorate the ground
around your feet.

Because no matter how you frame it, you're
a picture of "the worst is yet to come,"
and if you're lucky, maybe God (or some
divine eternal something) will forgive you for
the things you'll learn in time to cold regret.

But maybe not, and maybe greed will end you yet.

I like to meme all the time
I like to meme with a rhyme
I like to meme when I dine
Give me my smart phone back, mom, or I’ll ******* **** you

We forgot to build a snowman,
and we melted--
Guess who melted first.

But before we turned eighteen,
or even fifteen,
questions rolled into our houses
like sick bulldozers
for sick families.
I was never happy with the way
we held our hands together after
you started wearing those gloves.

I remember clearly
how you worded it when
you decided not to take my
"no" for an answer,
but I can't quite recall how you
pronounced it,
and your voice is all but totally replaced
with Lindsay Lohan's in my head:

"Now I'm writing to impress you,
and I hate that."

Sweet. There's the door.
Leave the pencil.

"Is there anybody out there who can
help me?" asked my uncle to the void.
Then rain, the rich confection of the gods,
became the only thing between his eyes
and heaven.

Bind your shins with jute rope
to the base of the tower,
and pull -- until the Earth is running
retrograde like VHS cassettes
your kids will never get to watch.

Be kind,
rewind,
remind me not to ask about
your day again.