do you ever wonder
about the difference between
looking at something
and the hallucination created
when looking past it?
if you look at your hand
it's all you can see
but if you look past your hand
there are now two of them
sometimes it's hard for me
to remember which is real
it gets me thinking
about how my father
used to wake me up
in the morning by rubbing
his stubble across my face
i spent my 11th birthday
under the assumption
that he might come back
if i drank his aftershave
like maybe if i could turn blue
if i could be his favorite color
on our bathroom floor
he would forget why he left
the paramedics were all sobing
as they pumped memories
out of my stomach
i coughed up the day the post-it note with your new address on it
burned a hole in our refrigerator
coughed up the day
the divorce papers came
and my mother
took a baseball bat to the mailbox
i've been choking on the splinters
for 17 years
it's been 17 years
since the last dinner plate
exploded on our dining room wall
17 years since my mother
started accidentally setting your place at the dinner table
17 years since italian night
at the restaurant on the corner
where the juke box
spat tired music
and like so many other things
it stopped working when you left
i guess it's no coincidence
since the juke box went quiet
that the cds in my car
only skip on "i miss you"
i've been hemorrhaging memories
for so long
and now that i'm looking back
i can no longer tell
the mirage from the truth
sometimes i swear
you showed up to my graduation
and last time
i was at your apartment
i can't remember
if the imprints of my hands
are in clay hanging on your wall
or if they were left in the mud
the day god had the audacity
to let it rain
or maybe it's like the time
i saw someone crying on a bridge
now that i think about it
i can't remember if it was me

He talked like a ******.
Walked like one.
Loudly assisting tourists in the
Line outside the bus.
My luck seated him in
Front of me. I answered
Evasively. Mentally begging

Shut up. Shut up.
I was tired.
I was hungry.

"Would you like a piece of pizza?"
He handed me a sealed
Bag. This close
His eyes contradicted his person.
Sober. Friendly. He smelled
Of aftershave and
Society.

"I shouldn't eat this, I'm working
With a Yoga project
To help addicts recover
Through meditation.
Should stay healthy. Been clean
For three years, though I
Know it doesn't seem like it.

I just love to talk to people."
I ate his pizza. We spoke.  
Squinted in laughter.
He cried like a girl when  
He saw Avatar, he confessed.
"My sons still take the p...
Outta me for that.
I'm so glad they'll never

Have to go through
What I did. I'll
Make sure of
That for
Sure, for
Sure."

I usually write poetry
On the bus.
This Friday afternoon
I lived it.

I opened the shutters and light eventually claimed
the perfection covered by my blanket. Dozing off
like it wasn't past eight and he had work
to do.

Last night was beautiful. It seemed like we were the after-effect
of a writer’s figment of imagination. No existing words
could ever describe and give justice as to how graceful and
stunning we were.

He held my hands – filling up the spaces that once stood
alone (but now never again). He touched the small of
my back and danced with me in the moon lit veranda with
only candles to witness us both.

His neck radiated of fresh soap and mint. His breath of
chocolate-covered strawberries we have shared fifteen minutes
ago. His soft, delicate hands tracing the non-existent contour
of my waist.

We swayed along Muse and Switch foot. As the last seconds
of our last song neared, he took me in his arms, and
put my lips against his. No one to see, no one to judge, no one
to ever write of.

Time flew so fast, yet so slow. Seconds turned into minutes,
minutes turned into hours, hours turned into centuries, and
after all my infinite nanoseconds, we were back under my covers
giggling like 5 year-olds, as love-stricken back in 2002.

And seeing his eyelids flutter now, I wonder if you are
ever going to leave again. Leave me back in my slumber, with no
deep brown eyes to wake up to. And without you, no one’s going to
*empty my aftershave or tie up my necktie anymore.

Razor on the bathroom sink and the smell of pine and aftershave
Calloused hands
Dirt fingernails
You packed and formed the soil like clay
Like paint
You were an artist, silent in the morning
Coffee before work
One beer after
One beer after and a warm dinner she made
Pine and aftershave
on the stairs
on the carpet
on the carpet on the stairs
Lean in
Lean in, kids
Lean in and I’ll tell you about them
You said,
You are an artist,
Silent and coffee in the morning
Loud and beer on the stairs,
on the carpet in the afternoon
Leather seat
Newspaper dogear
Brewers turned on
In the leather seat,
‘Turn it up,
They’re winning!’
They’re winning
They’re winning
Screen porch
Wooden door
Screen porch through the wooden door
Sitting
Bumblebee Boompa
Bumblee Boomps
In the garden
On the sink
In the kitchen
On the stairs
In the living room
On the porch
You are an artist
Silent in the morning
Loud
Loud
Loud in the afternoon
and winning

I found your perfume today.
An afterthought tucked away behind aftershave.

I sprayed it out of curiosity
Can you believe  I had almost forgotten?

The smell hit me like a runaway knife.
You are in front of me, arms wrapped tight

You wore that yellow shirt,
you always looked amazing in yellow
You always looked amazing.
And you kissed me.

I fell back; caught myself on the tub,
Sat there and caught a deep breath
The familiar smell had all but left.

I could not stand,
As strong as I am.
As strong as I'd become,
Run straight through by a glance.

I aimed to think of all I had done.
Of the women I've met: just one.
What I couldn't do with you,
There was none.

Nothing remains as I pack.
Your perfume hits the trash.
One man too wrapped up to come undone.

I smell like sweat, drugs and ***.

i love you,
fresh from
the shower.
glistening and wet,
smelling of aftershave.
"coolwater" by davidoff.  often aslo sandlewood,
goat soap, from the local
farmers markets.

i love you,
dressed up smart.
in a brook's brother's way
dress pants and shirt,
blue linen vest.
johnny walker silk bow tie,
untied is best. then your twist,
(not as original as you think)
converse skaties, no socks
and  bone bleached cuffs,
turned up.

i love you,
in your work gear.
just come home,
you smell of sweat.  
clean and healthy,
always wood shavings
caught up, in your
unruly shaggy hair.
cargo shorts and
t-shirts,
that have seen,
many days of worksite wear.
size elevens in your hands,
those big feet and freaky toes
bare, ******* in the air.

i love you,
in board shorts and rashie.
rushing into the surf,
hand in hand.
with the energetic bundle
of love,
to which we gave birth.

it is not as though,
clothes made this man,
but boyohboy, you, frame them well.

it s the heart, the chuckle
the hands, the philosphy,
the clever, erudite, caveman,
the downright,
man-dumb bloke.
that endears, your heart to
mine.

it is, that you really listen
and take the time,
to make me feel and be,
phenomenal, wise, sensual
and beautiful beside.

i love you,
best, in my bed.
moving slow and sure,
undressed, silk and velvet.
as we express,
the reality of our love
and whisper words,
well known,
and cry to heaven above.

i love you,
then, here, now and eons
on.
even after the worlds
memory of us,
is  nothing,
dust upon the breeze
our love,
will carry, forth
stardust on heaven's winds
and cries of our love and ecstasy
will birth worlds anew

the gallon of arizona green tea that you only drank a fraction of.
the salt and pepper potato chips you meant to eat, but only did so in the dream i had last night.
the unmade bed that was still unmade when you flew back home, the one i still cannot bring myself to make.
the dyed green hairs i keep finding around the house.
the way you always pronounced 'mosquito' as 'mosk-it-toe' on purpose, and how you pronounced my cat's name 'sullumun' instead of 'solomon' on accident.
the partially closed closet door from the morning i drove you to the airport.
the faint smell of your sweat on my pillow left because of your hyperhidrosis.
the flannel you wore and the longsleeve shirt you doused in your aftershave, that is three sizes too big for me to realistically wear.
the empty taco bell cups in my car from your fourth day here.
the empty shopping bags from our impromptu mall trip.
the polaroids you really wanted to keep, but we couldn't find when you packed.
the pieces of you that you never meant for me to keep that i keep piecing together as though, like an alchemist, i could make you appear again though i cannot, and you are not here, you are gone.

Pawpaw would rock by the fireplace in his favorite rocker ! The occasional whiff of Oak firewood and Borkum Riff pipe tobacco , I was hanging on to every word ! A narrative about a little boy in 1925 . Standing by his chair , as proud as I could be ! He'd look straight into your eyes without even flinching , the smell of Old Spice aftershave and Kentucky Bourbon . A shot glass with a gold rim ..A pocket watch his Father passed on to him ..Stories of a little fella from the south side of Atlanta relayed to a captive audience of one ! A starstruck grandson with a cup of hot chocolate , cap pistol , belt , holster , pajamas and house shoes ! Astonished with tales of Buffalo Bill ! Sergeant York and Wild Bill Hickok* !

the award for 'best sense'
goes to Touch.
let me prove it to you:
I can survive without
/seeing
/hearing
/smelling
/tasting
and though I'd love to see your eyes spark with passion
and though I'd love to hear your happiness when you succeed
and though I'd love to smell your aftershave in the morning
and though I'd love to taste your kisses created for me
I would rather cut off my tongue or gouge out an eye,
than live a day on this earth with no hands of yours in mine.

Purple aftershave on the corners of his lips, hairs trimmed and a gloss over the skin, peeking through the surface. Mirror ***** streaked with water a damp towel hanging over the basin.

I saw him in town today, standing on the street corner with his hands in his pockets waiting for the cross guard to let him walk. I ran so fast that the temporary glue I used to piece together major organs so that I could live, but live without emotion, grew loose. I put myself together again with washi tape from my kindergarten backpack. Placing them over the cuts his razor left between my legs.

I told myself that I would always be me before I remember that for 3 years I was yours. But right now the skies are grey and the scent your aftershave stings my nostrils. You made me kiss you on the cheek on the sickly smooth skin, you made me grow up too fast.

I set the closet where he kept me on fire with myself inside of it, deciding to burn with the ******* house instead of watching it from afar.

Knock on the old wood he opens the door to a room filled with smoke.

Look, I just want to move you.
Woo you.
Shake you loose but never lose you.
I want to
Savor the glazed reverent silence
Of your gasping, ungrasped breath.
Sip it down till there's nothing left
Yet still explain all the rest.
See, it's time I unearth some gold.
Nothing here sold.
Just given freely to slurp up,
served up cold.
But I dare not go it alone.
Not when there's so many heplping hands
Beyond my own.
So I first court Eloquence.
She's an easy mark to find,
volubly masticating volumes
while leisurely lathering her tanned,
Leather skin.
Dolloping her monocle-bodied features
In librarian sin.
She says...
"My dear boy.
Berate them NOT
with your false start,
lethargic oddities.
Your penchant,
Melancholic falsities.
You must but grunt through the trudgery
Of your muddy misgivings,
And birth only accessible
Pertinent notions.
Neither precarious nor
Incongruous to the truth!
Robby.
You must simply relinquish your
Intrepid, frenzied paucities!
So I dismiss the diss.
Since
her big scary words are kinda lost to me.
Evidently, though,
I must need a Joe Blow.
An Everyman.
A Streetcorner Clairvoyant.
I turn to
(drum roll)
Raunchiness.
His beer belly **** and **** jokes
And dollar store aftershave suggest
A pleasing 'pull-my-finger' charm
that just might turn the trick.
He licks his lips,
And chides through a buck-tooth,
Spit shine smile.
Sheeeooot, boy,
That there one's easy.
All you gotsta do is
Go down deep
And speak from your gut.
Tell em how you feel..
How you REALLY feel.
Tell em..
shoot, tell em they rub you just right,
You might well feel as ***** as
Your gas gauge after a good pump.
As ***** as a McD's wrapper
Corner-pinch-discarded like
A used diaper hammock.
Yeah! You tell em your as ******
As a receptacle
For used diaper hammocks!
Hells yeah.
Girls will eat that **** up!
And say you're as gay as rainbow gold
As straight as an arrow-head.
As misled as finding your folks are still *** fiends
or as contradictory as ***** like me!
Boy, you are as con-fused as the
Lumpy, stumpy, pimply dimpled teen who finds out
Santa Claus IS real!
And he's hanging out loose
In every single Hustler Magazine!
Now hear me boy.
If they still don't care,
Or they see that you're scared,
Just say you feel as guilty as midnight dials
From parents of Girls-Gone-Wild,
sneering,
"Well shoot, sugar plum.
You sure ain't been feeling
Real secure in awhile."
And as he loosely labels me
As awkward as **** thermometers,
As misunderstood as **** plugs,
I give Raunchiness a dismissive shrug,
And return to the mystery
Of what I've missed from me,
Whatever still may be
My own poetic style.

The slamming door,
The picture falls,
The empty seat,
The ripples on a pool.
The shiver of passing cool,
A little movement in the corner of the eye,
They are out there when they die.

The missing keys,
The car lights on,
The Sunday paper when it's gone,
My favorite screwdriver disappeared,
Hammer and chisel lost I know its wierd,
Even in fading light,  
I can tell they have been passing here at night.

In the the sitting room too,
My  alcohol is being consumed,
A rowdy bunch without a doubt,
I guess they have been all about.
And then the bathroom loo
My aftershave is gone too
Can't be true
Isn't it true Ghosts don't shave ?

They have no lengthening whiskers,
No 6 o'clock shadow just a shade.
Even if they waxed their legs
For some spiritual tango on their pegs
They wouldn't use an aftershave glaze
Just some moonlight shadow mixed with cloudy greys.

In the late night when I cannot sleep,
I walk the house in bare feet,
And wonder when my boys became men,
Looking as the soundly sleep,
Its Saturday night they clearly reek,
Of Bourbon, aftershave and feet.
No wonder the Ghosts they leave them alone,
Is it just me they want to atone?