i used to associate screwdrivers with the tools
my father regularly brought with him on his belt
to work, and now that i have tasted a screwdriver
and the aftertaste of you lingers after every huge
swallow, i want to drink until inch by every inch
of my body can feel something remotely far from
where you are. i want to associate screwdrivers
with tools, as a woman, i may use maybe once
or twice, but never as a drink. i really hope i get
drunk today because i'm not seeing my muse.
ever again. the tectonic plates underneath my feet
have shifted and i'm not able to stand on my own
anymore. how i only wish i could say that i'm
suffering and being miserable all for you.

- kra

Where do forgotten stories lay?
Perhaps a quiet, bleak graveyard with blank graves
as nobody sings the words from these pages nor
nourishes the barren brown dead grass ground with any praise.

What happens to a love once extinguished?
A self-sustaining universe expanded so much
all the stars snuffed and smoldered--life choked out
as once burning heat now colder than the dark side of a glacial moon
echoes in a vast dark void of blankness.

Can two diametrically opposed beliefs exist in the same room?
Or does bloodshed have to follow
because mind-numbing decibel blasting arguments
turn both mad with bloodlust rage until the one stabbed least is left standing?

Is it better for people to give a **** or clean one up?

Where's the best place to visit for people
who are ******* fed up with the bureaucratic
red-tape dotted line terms of usage world
but don't give a ****?

What's the difference between sports and Hollywood?

What happens to the truth when we've told a lie?
Is it like a battered and bruised wife,
bleeding from the nose with ripped hair follicles on the ground
or does it simply drink away the abandonment  on the rocks to forget?

Random Sampling

Coughing up a lung,
sticking out my tongue.
Looking up her skirt,
dropped my pencil in the dirt.
Watching movies just for fun,
I will never own a gun.
Cat **** on the floor,
kicked it out the door.
Jake The Snake and The Macho Man,
will forever be a wresting fan.
Heavy metal and hard rock,
Skid Row's singer was Sebastian Bach.
New Jersey's pizza is the best,
it would beat New York's in any taste test.
Slept with girls, I didn't like,
soon after, I made them take a hike.
Never slept with a man,
if the money was right, I guess I can.
Love all my family and friends,
mess with them and I will defends.
Done some killer drugs,
stuck screwdrivers in some plugs.
I love paper, I love pen,
I'm more smart than the Three Wise Men.
Pina Colada's in Margaitaville,
then I take the bitter pill.
I still love eighties music,
it's relaxing and therapeutic.
Baseball is my favorite sport,
the Phillies, I will always support.
The next Super Bowl will be held in San Quentin,
***** girls take it on the chin.
I had a few nervous breakdowns,
I've put on a few to many pounds.
Allen does what Allen wants,
how's that for my final response.

It was a Saturday afternoon
The legion branch was full
The band was playing some old twangy country song
The front four tables were singing along
Up at the bar
A steady line up of Nevada players
hoping for another jackpot
to cover another few beers
And to make the afternoon last
Nothing worse, than having to milk
a weak draft for an hour
Until the men came back from horseshoes
About three o'clock
the branch livened up as Jimi McGonagle arrived
grandson of the past president
and general all about me, *******
He was strutting around
showing off his new tattoo
No different than his other
thirty or so, but it was new
and it was Jimi McGonagle
so everyone wanted to see
He was proud he now had eight peacocks
All up one leg....there's a joke here
But, even I won't go that far....
The crowd swarmed around him
But, in the back corner
The table....I mean THE TABLE...
didn't move a muscle
In fact out of the three individuals at THE TABLE
Two continued with their dart game
while the third just chuckled, let out a loud
HARUMPH
and went back to his screwdriver
with the quickly melting ice cubes
famous at all legions for helping water down the drinks
Jimi, heard the HARUMPH and looked back
The old man took a slug from the glass
and HARUMPHED louder
Jimi, perplexed, came over to see what was the matter
"Don't like my tattoos Mr. Stein?"
HARUMPH..."they're fine, if you like that kind of thing"
said the old man, knocking back his glass again
"Gives me eight peacocks on my leg now" said Jimi
Again, no response from me on the possible joke here
"cost me almost $700 bucks to get this one done"
"HARUMPH" said the old man....
"What is wrong with you Mr. Stein?"
"Don't like it?"
"Like I said...."
"I know, I know"....said Jimi
"Got any ink?" asked Jimi
"Yep" answered the old man, as a fresh glass arrived
He took a slug...
"So?"...said Jimi, "Is it any better than my peacock?..
"Maybe..maybe not"...said the old man
"It just depends"
The crowd had moved away and was dropping back to the bar area
"Can I see it?" asked Jimi..."What is it?"
"'tain't much to speak of...but I'll show you"....
"Just quit strutting around and sit....and I'll have another screwdriver"...
Jimi sat, and the old man looked him in the eye
"Don't have much colour, like your'n do...don't have any at all"...
"But, a tat's a tat, and you want to see it"...."You sure?"
Jimi nodded, ordered the drink for the old man
"HARUMPH"...said Mr. Stein
He unbuttoned his shirt cuff on the left side
and rolled it up, with his big, beefy, work worn hands
"There she be" he said
"Where", said Jimi
"There'n, on my wrist....just there"
"All I see is a number, an old, worn number"
"That'd be her" said Mr. Stein...."It's all I got, and it's all I need"
"What is it?" asked Jimi
"It's who I am...who I was reduced to"
"It's my curse, and my strength"...
"I was 17 when I got this in Hammelburg, Germany"....
"It was 1943 and we were rounded up"
"and sent to the camps...we were some of the last jews"
"they missed us in the first go round"
"gave me this...don't need another one"
"It's me...this number....it's me"
"Yours are nice...colourful....but are they you?"
"Mine is me"...
"You can see...I have ink....only one....don't want anymore"
"Can I sit a while?" asked Jimi
"Sure, son"...."you can tell me 'bout them silly peacocks"
"Bartender....two screwdrivers"
...and so developed a new and deep friendship....

you will forget
the colour of my eyes
and the way i turn to the back door
instinctively, when i hear the click
and how, unlike you all, i do not yell across the cubicles
the way i crushed boxes for two hours, then
and how i cry, too easily
the six pack of strawberry milk (fresh from the fridge) that only i drank
the smell of fish and chips that wafted through the office and-

-you will forget my love,
my loyalty,
and soon enough,
you will forget me.

i don't want to forget.

"don't want to?"

no. i can't.

i cannot forget the christmas decorations that must be down by now
or the perpetually-unmanned front
or stale, recycled, air-conditioned oxygen that tasted like bliss
and lemon stained fish and chips, and salad that came out of a tub,
and scalding heat against my palm
and tears.

i cannot forget the way she laughs
like an orchestra of the wind beneath the branches
or the way you shook my hand
and made me feel like i belonged and
how you, you, my love, you are bothering to go to the trouble of sending me registered mail
so it doesn't get lost
the way i do, in her eyes

i cannot forget how you are different. special
and how you refuse to take selfies that are glamorous
because you have a sense of fun and
the first time you ever saw me, drenched
dedicated, yearning, and already in irrevocable love.

i cannot forget the strike i scored
with my eyes on a screen instead of a lane and
the cookies, the vouchers, the games
the screwdrivers, shoes, and sushi

i cannot forget the goodbyes i never said
in case i never say them, the next time i can
that once upon a time-
i belonged.

i cannot forget beauty and goodness and strength and
laughter and belonging and teasing and acceptance and
loyalty and experience and diversity and determination and
passion and teamwork and friendship and family and
love.

i cannot forget.
because you will.

you know what they say
if nobody remembers something any longer
did it really exist?

when i was young and foolish i thought that was so ridiculous
because it's happened- so it must exist
mustn't it?
and now i see why
the philosophers say what they do
and why people doubt.

i am so afraid to forget
because if i can,
then others can (and will), as well.

but as long as i remember (even if it fades from the collective remembrance)
then it will always exist
even if only
in the land of memories
and dreams upon our dreams
where we can never set foot upon again.

My great-grandmother lived in a time when if you sang too loudly in a public place
Such as on the bus
With no audible music anyone else could hear
You were thrown away
Reported by the sanest of citizens
Locked away in the mental ward of Bellevue Asylum
By your own family

She was an alcoholic
Well, she was Italian
As was that whole part of my family
And Italians like wine
And she liked her wine
Maybe a little bit too much
My grandfather said that by six o'clock
Everyone in the house was screaming
Throwing things
Alcohol-tinged, infant-like fits
The lot of them
Drunk
Every night of the year

But my great-grandmother
She was the only one who carried her drink
In a little metal flask
Tucked in her ragged coat
Took it with her on the bus
On the way to work at a hotel
Where people with enough money
To boost the world's economy
Slept, ate and yelled at her
For forgetting to put a mint on their pillow once
But she just hummed away
Took the flack with a smile
Sipped her poison
And rode the bus back to work
The next day
Drunk
Singing
La Donna e' Mobile

One day though
Her brothers caught up to her
As she was boarding that bus
She was singing again
And smiled
Asked them what they were doing there
And they looked at her
Smiled
And smacked her

They threw her in their car
And took her to Bellvue
In 1947
When the idea of mental health
Was shrouded in ignorance
And scrutiny
And the word "medicine"
Meant electric-shocks to the brain
Submerging in below freezing
Ice-tanks
And
Fiddling around
In people's brains
Through their eye-sockets
With screwdrivers
"Lobotomies"

My grandfather was born in 1945
He was only two when they took his mother away
And only three
When they told him she died
Rotting in the asylum
Experiments done to her
That my family will never know the nature of
Never know how much pain
She ****** up
Never know if the cause of death
Was actually "cirrhosis of the liver"
Or
An officially administered
Botched
Brain-****

O my little darling,
let’s drop by the coffee shop,
we'll have a quick hot-brew.
There's nothing like
a mug of strong Colombian!

Then we can head over to Kyoto’s,
we'll have some platters of delicious-sushi.
I really love the sashimi. 
There's nothing like eating spicy raw-fish
coated with that fiery-hot wasabi!

Hey you girl,
I don’t want to sound too pushy,
but it’s getting kind of late,
let’s head over to my place,
we'll mix up
a couple of slow screwdrivers.
There's nothing like
those tasty midnight cocktails,
I love sipping them,
especially with you.

O you’re my prefect date,
so scrumptious,
so true,
I think I love you!

You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.

You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****.
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”

You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.

Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.

When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.

“Who has set my bed elsewhere? Hard would it be for one, though never so skilled, unless a god himself should come and easily by his will set it in another place. But of men there is no mortal that lives, be he never so young and strong, who could easily pry it from its place, for a great token is wrought in the fashioned bed, and it was I that built it and none other.”

                  The Odyssey, Homer, Translation by Robert Fagels (XXIII.182-190)*

You and I built a bed-frame, for me to sleep alone.
a frame to represent what we could do,
to humble us, to put us back together.
a bed to lift me off the ground.

I collected tools, arranged parts. Convinced myself
not to touch you. You read Swedish directions.
We tried to talk over the whirring of electric
screwdrivers, over the clacking of plastic panels.

Standing in the hollow bed-frame with you.
I feel like we should sail off together. Forget
the Christmas musical, refuse telephone bills.
Later, the night falls on me, sinking into nowhere.

status binds us and we are
cutting off limbs with
flat head screwdrivers.

do you hide under the covers like i do?
does the Vicodin block the heat like your air
conditioner?

billiards and midnight jogs do
not swim like professionals do,
but they keep my memory from defaulting
to all the chairs you placed jeans or
leggings
or a hope for a swift removal of pain
inside of a safe with
fingertips stronger than narcotics.

a pass code for purpose is a pig in flight;

we have maps but we will not ever understand how to read them.

late summer 1984 Odysseus thinks he sees girl resembling Bayli walking large black dog on armitage street he and Farina still puppy follow girl and her dog to oz park as he nears yells “Bayli?” she looks around replies “Odys? oh Odys! i can’t believe it’s really you it’s so good to see you i’ve missed you so much how’ve you been?” “oh god Bayli i’ve missed you so much too how are you? are you still married?” she answers “we recently divorced he turned out to be real **** secretly borrowed money against mortgage to our house to buy ******* he’s a drug addict we lost everything i’m staying with girlfriend from work then moving this weekend to north carolina where my parents now live” he gazes at her thinks how grown-up lovely she looks she wears tight black jeans tank top beneath short red leather jacket black pointed boots they chat while Farina follows Bayli’s ******* dog he invites her to his place nearby to look at some drawings she agrees tells him thrift-store shirt he is wearing is very cool he offers it to her on the way they pass gare st. lazare Bayli says “i love this place Odys i’m starved haven’t eaten all day let’s stop for a bite let me take you to lunch” he says “i’ll have a cocktail” they tie dogs to parking meter go inside sit in booth drink several screwdrivers smoke talk Bayli orders steak and fries Odysseus orders ****** mary madonna’s “like a ******” plays from bar speakers Bayli comments “there’s still innocence about you Odys i can feel it you’re like child full of gullibility wonder how have you managed to survive?” his eyes glance down speaks “oh Bayli if only you knew the truth it hasn’t been easy” he nibbles one of her fries explains “i’ve struggled Mom and Dad pushed me into commodity markets that was total disaster i’m trying to get back to my true self stumbling every step i’ve made some new drawings you’ll see let me take some water out to the dogs i’ll be right back” they hang out at gare st. lazare for hour talking ordering another round of drinks later when they arrive at his place dogs race up stairs Bayli peers around at drawings on walls “Odys you’re a real artist i’m astounded by your work you’re better than i ever imagined i wish i could say same for myself my life is in ruins man i married physically abused cheated on me stole 10 years savings $260,000 i need to go home to my parents rebuild my life starting from scratch” he kisses her lips they embrace she smells like vanilla he slides hand between her thighs in nurturing voice she says “slow go slow Odys” they tear off each other’s clothes he recognizes her knobby knees he so loves notices her bush has grown fuller ***** longer Bayli has matured into superb lover he adores way they relate over time Odysseus has drawn many sketches of Bayli yet he neglects to show her his thoughts run wild with lightness this afternoon he is so thrilled he dismisses all the things he wants to tell her his mind drifts in world of fantasy forgetfulness he fails to comprehend what Bayli means to him in numb dumb way in passion of  moment Bayli is just another piece of *** another colorless girl passing through his life he looks at her his most perfect ideal woman admires her body yet cannot see her does not realize brain does not register speaks her name Bayli the most beautiful sound his ears can hear but it is just another name how can this occur? they make tender passionate love then he asks her to model she consents he positions her lying down on her back with arms legs outstretched like she is floating he positions her on her knees with hands cupped then clasped like she is praying he positions her curled up on her side watches her get dressed leave go to her parent’s home in north carolina why doesn’t he beg her to stay rebuild her life with him? why does he let her go? what is he thinking? that is just it he is not thinking and for 2nd time it costs him love of his life there is no one to blame but himself when did he become so empty?
what kind of man am i to walk the streets in search of love? once i was loved by beautiful sweet woman who was content just knowing i was happy Bayli was pure honest loyal i thought her a child yet she is more woman than i have ever known thought because she came so easily i could easily get better i let her go the one person in whole world who really loved me made me happy kept me in light i told her someday when i am recognized artist with money respect i will come for her until then we both need time to build towards our destinies it doesn’t matter what i told her she’s gone what kind of man am i to walk the streets in search of love? how do i hold myself responsible for my own stupidity? i’ve had such incredible women offer themselves to me and turned away slamming door on love what kind of man am i to stalk the streets in search of love? i’m going to get so drunk i won’t be able to recognize myself in mirror

it’s late
or early,
depends how you
look at it,
only my hands and
heart are cold,
smoke filled garage,
rusted tools
hang themselves
in front of me,
paintless brushes,
painted brushes and
baseless screwdrivers
ashy floors and drywall
painted with holes
from fists and hockey
pucks, church pews
of razor-slit,
spray painted
by angsty young
i sit upon,
unfinished projects
are suppose to sit on
the other side of
the workbench.

The first story I ever heard was from Grandfather,
about a boy & his dog. Grandfather looked pale
as ash that day. It was December & I was still
a small wrinkle in a bassinet. Mother & Father
were still new parents. They never listened to Grandfather,
just cradled me like a bundle of empty beer bottles.

Even now I’ve never seen either of my parents
drink, but I can hear them screaming, at night, about me,
mostly, sounding like whorls of fingerprints
being rubbed together in the wrong direction. My body is so often

being rubbed together in the wrong direction: a stomach that feels like moths
or eggs boiled incorrectly, too soft or too hard. My stomach growls, often.
Tightens, often, like thousands of screwdrivers in my throat.

If Grandfather could see me now he would cry. In the story
the boy & his dog are having trouble moving their sled down
a steep & snowy mountain but in the end they succeed, sliding
down the mountain the way hands do across large bellies. I am not a boy,
I do not own a dog, or a sled. Nights I stay up late
curled on the floor of the kitchen or the bathroom,
clutching at my body,
at the swole of my abdomen,
as though it were a large pile of greasy, brown rats.

you hadn't spoken to me in four days
so i mixed enough screwdrivers and desperation
to mistake his strawberry blond hair for your black
and i can't remember saying yes or no
but i woke up covered in blood and bruises.
i patiently waited 23 years for love
and let solely your lips on mine
preserved for three in anticipation
only to give up in a grimy bathroom
to a boy with no last name
and a girl awaiting him upstairs.
life is not always a storybook.
later that night a girl sobbed on my bare chest
and told me never to trust anyone
that people will invariably let me down
that she wished someone had warned her
when she was like me
she said my wide-eyed naivete
was a bulls-eye
and i must not charge into battle
without armor and sword.
maybe this was a lesson i was supposed to learn
when you slurred it angrily last year
but my words are my white flag
and i've never been much of a fighter
so i'll start my breakneck pace towards heartache
with the exhilaration of foresight
and blinders for those with shields
until you cut me down.

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You used to sit
on the cross beams
drilling holes through
for the wiring

circa 1965
on some building site
where Clifton
had left you

with the tools
for the jobs
he wanted done
hand drill

screwdrivers
hammer
chisel
and enough electric cable

to reach
the North pole
in the background
transistor radios

were blasting out
pop music
Bob Dylan
the Beatles

The Rolling Stones
and here and there
other guys
plasterers and painters

and bricklayers
all doing their job
when and where
they could

and you wondered if Clifton
would remember
to pick you up
after work or if

you'd have to get
the bus home spending
your own money
which he seldom repaid

(the tight ***)
but sometimes
you thought of Judith
and what

she was doing
and whom
she was seeing now
thinking back

to the  days
when she was yours
the bright days
the days you spent

by the pond
(which she
called the lake)
the kissing

the loving
the sun over
the pond
making shadows

and bright places
or the days at school
on the sports field
after recess

her words
her wisdom
her bright eyes
and smile lingering

as you bored the hole
in another cross beam
yours hands aching
from the constant turning

and Dylan singing
Blowing in the Wind
from some transistor
across the way

another hole to bore
another boring day.

There are no hammers in my room.
No tactical advances which need enhancements.
no broken bits of furniture in need of further
assessment.
There are no screwdrivers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed.
nothing blotchy or broken.
or to say this house is less than homely.
There are no hammers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed. Deconstructed. Detonated.
No little lines on the carpet, no rusty pipes beneath my sink
There are no razors in my bathroom
nothing which brings blood from my retinas
nothing stinks of mold, nothing sinks in the carberater
escaping excavation
measure the short comings of my
makings, and takings, and tasks.
There are no dust mites beneath my bed
there are nothing but soap and cleansing masks.
sleeping with the boogy man, sharing his head
space,
no naked, termites in my walls.
skeletons in my closet.
nothing that would appall an exterminator.
nothing which says this house is less than
homely.

"flower cannonball" they called you, since your
stems wrapped itself tightly together like hands
intertwined or vines clinging onto a fence or even
my teacup mix's claws yanking onto my lace shirt.

they used the dumpster graveyard flowers to create
you. despite the vivid color scheme, the cannonballs
were nothing short of a beautiful disaster in my head.
let an apocalypse happen, i'm already rotting away
anyway from the mixture of screwdrivers and the
cannonball drinks. let me strain myself clear of hues
of blues and black you painted me with. let me sink
with these letters tucked underneath my ribcage as
my seatbelt for the death sentence. at first, i couldn't
understand why you were called a name like that.

now i am understanding love and loss's gravitational
pull and the release of that gravity. you were a beautiful
disaster, building castles on rubble and driving ferraris
on cracked streets filled in with tar. you were nothing
short of beautiful, nothing short of death being romantic,
and death is starting to look a lot like you now.

i don't even care if i die anymore.

- kra

I'm trying to figure out why I'm not good enough
The man who makes up half of who I am
Shows no interest in 1/3 of his self-worth
And I get it
I was never very bright
Never really right for this world
I questioned every move he ever made
And always acted like I didn't need him
Life lessons came from outside perspectives
And I guess I never really fit into his world
Drinking and driving is hard when you have a kid in the car
It's hard to shut the world out drinking *** and coke when you have someone asking you history questions
Mixing morning screwdrivers is challenging when you have to pour cereal into a bowl at the same time
I get it
Alcohol is your life line
Your anchor out at sea
You want to experience life with blinders on
So far you've done a pretty good job
Now that I'm older you expect me to walk away
Because you never really were there to be begin with
So why would I even want you to stay
If you can't change for your kids then you really can't change for anyone
I just want you to tell me why I'm not good enough
I'm not a little kid anymore
Because of you I'm pretty tough
Maybe if I was gone you could drink freely
I'm seeing clearly
I can't make you love me the way you love the bottle
And one day I will just be another hazy memory
You'll never fully know what happened
You'll look at me and say that I was just a bad habit

I had a few unfamiliar mushrooms for breakfast,
And decided to have a picnic.
I got my berry basket and plopped two foxes in it.
I then staggered to the chicken coupe,
And told the hen to tell me the truth.
“What can you do with an egg?” I asked.
“Fake it” she replied.
“I could see dat” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
I walked out of the coupe, catching shooting stars on my tongue,
When I realized, I just had a conversation with a chicken.

I suddenly felt an urge to do so many things:
I could arrest all those screwdrivers for molesting those innocent screws…
Maybe I could get a balloon to bounce!
Oh…..wait, I didn’t take a shower today….
Meh, I’ll wait till it rains.
WOA what if I had a tail!? I would so drape it over my arm.
And who wants to breathe fire when it could be milk? I LOVE MILK!
Dam…. What if I start to shrink?
Eating my hat seems to fit.
***** this!.... I’m just guna eat some spaghetti with an axe.

Highs and lows
This is my life
I'm riding in a roller coaster that never stops going left or right
I'm high on mania
I'm depressed to death
Suicides my best friend
While adrenaline is my usual breath
Sometimes I think about love
But it doesn't last long
Only wishing angels could come from above
Lost in translation
My heart hurts
So much that it feels like Phillip screwdrivers stabbing me
From my mind connected my heart
Everyday I make connections but I always fall apart
No more I say no more I feel
It's destroying my cardiovascular
Even though I can't find myself anything
Spectacular
They say I'm this and that and it's all good
Not much of bad stuff I'm sure
When it's life? Is it now?
They kept telling me the cure
But all I heard instead was the nuisance of bad words.

Library lifter
Came to my study
He made all precautions
Mom’s sleeping
Mind’s blowing
He’s stepping smoothly
Right into my precious hub
With fairly ***** intentions

He carries his box of instruments
With screwdrivers of all types
To turn my guts inside out
With spanners of all sizes
To tighten up my nuts

He’s sitting on my lap
Reading me my book
My favorite childish book
He’s putting me down
Into a deep slumber
With his sweet lullaby
My grave been prepped in advance
Somewhere down the street
Next to the Milky Way  

Library lifter
Soul collector  
Made a good job
Once again

Outside the barless
Tired wanderer sleeps

softly under the gutter
Of divine prices
and flocks of birds

Tapping on the mind window to suggest

that it's safe outside for the first time he can remember.

He carries himself like a beast of burden

Adjusting to a new pair of glasses he

never asked for!
The Santa Monica Pier

Flashes up like an express elevator in his childlike remembrances

& Screwdrivers &
heels contact with a hardwood floor

Paid for every month with a hard earned dollar
By a hard working family
Who always had it dogged

& Questioning why ah why he's

Slow with the
  kinks in his back nobody knows his name He
  doesn't know theirs either

He remembers the name of routine
offices & the birdsong of three AM

Removed from physicality by then searching for his kneecaps

N constant intervals of unseen shouting from
A block over or upwards to him

The junktruck tumbles down the black Avenues
Another communist is born

& Yawning has grown into language

Poetic verse misunderstood by many

The ministry on ones heels

& Neon has replaced vinework

He's just tired and can't stop rehearsing apologies

Bo Diddley's Nursery Rhyme as the European bus
Cruises past Chinatown a woman

Takes a clove cigarette out from her shirt
Pocket
Laughing to herself

& It travels towards the street vendor
He's making it
and A phone call interrupts the whole scene

A great glowing ship suddenly materializes
(Nobody pays any attention)

The coffee is strong today

His thoughts are being particularly loud lately

The auburn trees
Collapse their shimmering hue

As the sun releases it's hold
The potted plants are writing eulogies

A child runs thru an Island orchard
His shirt sticks to his skin
And the girl
who in eleven years will marry him

Is fifteen miles away sleeping off a fever
She has hazel eyes

& Her mother works at a hospital
She's an only child

She will smell as a poppies seductive
Stare or an Actress perfume
Autumn is

One week off
The ashtrays are in need of cleaning

The ceiling fans turned off
& The desk fans shelved in familiar
Musty closets

Nobody can remember what heartbreak felt like

As for one premature month that year
Everything was just alright

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..

enough money within her control to move out
and rent a place of her own,
even if she never wants to or needs to…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..

something perfect to wear if the employer, or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..

a youth she’s content to leave behind….

a past juicy enough that she’s looking forward to
retelling it in her old age….

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …..

a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .

one friend who always makes her laugh… and one who lets her cry…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ….

a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …

eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal, that will make her guests feel honored…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …

a feeling of control over her destiny.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

how to fall in love without losing herself.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

when to try harder… and WHEN TO WALK AWAY…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

that she can’t change the length of her calves,
the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents..

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

that her childhood may not have been perfect…but its over…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

what she would and wouldn’t do for love or more…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

how to live alone… even if she doesn’t like it…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..

whom she can trust,
whom she can’t,
and why she shouldn’t take it personally…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

where to go…
be it to her best friend’s kitchen table…
or a charming inn in the woods…
when her soul needs soothing…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…

what she can and can’t accomplish in a day…
a month…and a year…

By
Pamela Redmond Satran

Bolts go with screwdrivers
Wrenches install nails
and life keeps going.

Sadness goes with anger
Empty thoughts will never fill
and life keeps going.

May
May 20th...
I don't even know what day it is today
May 22nd, 2015
Last night I did *******...
And I smoked a lot of ****
And I drank a lot

Between Screwdrivers and Cuba Libres
There was something there waiting
I'm searching for something without any idea of how to find it
Why do I punish myself?
It's just me causing harm to me
I am becoming my reflection

i worry about my purpose a lot.
it's a pretentious thing to write down i know.
but if i didnt have purpose to contemplate
than all the screwdrivers downed
would be for nothing
all the evenings still in bed
would be for nothing
all of my short comings
would be for nothing.

if there's no corner piece
for me to slide into,
i might just bang my head into my desk
until i cant feel it anymore.

_

I tore my hand from hers and I stumbled backwards feeling disgusted.  Feeling disgusting.  

Soiled, oily.

Five bottom-shelf screwdrivers and a pitcher-and-a-half of cheap beer briskly informed me that my stomach was a little too happenin, and they were gonna go ahead and go.  

Like, NOW.

I ran towards the bathroom, elbowing several people out of the way as I went.

Several much larger, and leather-clad Mowhawkians.

Moshers who had been standing in line for at least 15 minutes.

How I didn't get punched I will never know...

I careened into the stall like a methhead pinball and got ready to lose my liquid lunch.  

The watery hi-***** and natty light must have seen the same sight I did, because they decided they didn't really have anywhere to be after all.

I propelled myself away from the nightmare cesspool masquerading as a toilet, mostly by force of horror.

Luckily my legs wanted the **** out of there as badly as the rest of me, and they shakily complied.

Rocking side-to-side like a punch-drunk prize-fighter in Round-9, I bulled past an eight-foot-tall stick-figure goth-person, and it hit me:

I am going to have to tell her....

I was suddenly alone in the club.

...I am going to have to tell the love of my life that another woman kissed me.

The electricity went out.

Not in the seedy South East D.C. nightclub, but inside me.

The room was still, full of the life-like statues of dancers.

Lasers, frozen-fire, suspended in darkness and smoke.

The color had drained, like a rerun on a black & white TV...

I could only watch as my life crumbled in my mind's eye.

In the midst of this noisy, noxious, overcrowded *******.

In deafening, rhythmic silence.

What passed for air was sweaty-*****, and midsummer dank even in winter.

But the air around me became crisp.

Not crisp like the wind in February,

Crisp like the silence in a tomb.

Fitting.

Because I won't survive this.

I didn't know it yet, but this $5 cover open-bar might as well have been my tomb.

Sealed as tightly as my fate.

With a kiss.

Red face, shaky hands
Too many screwdrivers
Can throw a wrench into the best of plans
It’ll take a lot to fix this mechanic
But with a little elbow grease
And something to eat
He’ll be running like new
Just you see

Gratitude

So proud you never killed
anyone driving drunk as a lord
in my car on school nights
late on weekends after tossing
your filthy apron and clocking
out ripe and sloppy on wedding
screwdrivers gulped on the sly
engulfed in great gouts of steam
issued forth from the big Hobart
a purification ritual that rendered
you invisible until I could melt
away into the sober night
make good my escape yet again.

Time stops. The sweep hand seconds that no-motion
It fluttered in warning for several days
You were warned, and now you are out of time
That thing on your wrist is now but a weight

Oh, what is the nature of time? one asks
Oh, where is there a fresh 370?
The watch-opener reposes patiently
The tiny screwdrivers wait silently

Because without a 370 battery

(Which you can’t find in this town)

A watch is only useless tattery