boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"will you?" Mathilda repeated, I think.

"will I, what?"

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

"sure."

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

"what do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you're awful."

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't."

"avocados."

"what?"

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

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

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

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

We took the back road to the house. The shade from the trees made the road feel like tunnel. Not a shred of light came in. We'd have to drive slow. The road wasn't made of concrete: it was made of dirt, rock, and dead leaves. Sometimes we could see the worms come up out of the dirt in the headlights, their pink stretching bodies like weird little fingers. Carrie never looked. She said it was too scary. The rest of us would look and watch them dance around like that. Sometimes we'd have to run them over. Of course, we'd feel bad about it, but we needed to get back to the house. There were things to be done. Nothing planned, but nonetheless, things to be done.
Englend reversed the car up to the front door. The liquor, the food, and the beer was in the back and would make it easier to get it from there. Patty and Carrie (the one scared of the worms) ran straight to the bathroom. They'd been complaining about how we never stopped at a gas station to ***. Englend said we didn't have the time and I just didn't care. Denny was in the same mindset as me. We usually were. Kat was looking out the window, thinking about something she didn't wish to share when we started to unload. She offered to help after she'd finished her thought, but the three of us said we had it. We didn't really, but we let her have her thought while we carried the bags. There weren't that many to complain about anyway.
When everyone was inside unpacking their things, I hung back and smoked a cigarette. I looked down at the river. It was full and rushing. The trees were full with bright, lime green leaves. The branches were tanned auburn from the sun. They looked the forearms of the Mexican girls at my high school: smooth, everlasting, stretching to a place I was never allowed to touch or look at. I ashed my cigarette into a pile of leaves and immediately worried that I was going to start a fire. I kicked it out, thrusting my boot heel into where I thought the ember had went.
"What the hell are you doing?" Englend screamed from the front porch, a handle of whiskey underneath his arm, a glass with ice in the other.
"Ashed into the leaves," I told him, "Trying to take it out." I kicked the leaves a few more times, then walked towards Englend.
"Let me get a hit of that," I said, pointing at the handle.
He spun the top and it rolled off the tread. The cap rolled off the deck and Englend chased after it, handing me the bottle first.
"Take this. Where'd the hell it go?"
"Down there somewhere," I said, pulling the bottle back. The sweetness of the whiskey hit my nostrils first, then the bite of the liquor. I coughed, feeling my eyes begin to water. The first one was always the hardest. After that, they got easier.
June had just ended. July was just arriving. The third was tomorrow and the next day was the fourth.
I took another pull from the handle. I placed on the decks railing and left Englend with it. He was still looking around for the bottle cap.
"I thought I saw it roll under the deck," I told him.
"*******," he moaned. He looked up at me, "Come and help me. It'll be faster with two."
"Can't. Gotta' check on Carrie and get ourselves a room."
"*******," he moaned again, reaching under the deck.
"Don't get your hand bit by a possum or rat or something!" I yelled behind me, going inside. "Carrie!" I screamed, "Where'd you go?"
"Upstairs getting our room ready!" I heard her scream from the 2nd floor, "Come and help me put the sheets on."
I went into the kitchen. Denny was stocking the fridge with the beer and the meat. I reached over his shoulder and grabbed a Budweiser. He had an open one in between his knees. The light stuff was on the bottom to the far left, the heavy stuff in the middle, and the expensive IPA, hoppy stuff to the far right. The top shelf was for food, mixer, and whatever else the girls had decided to get at the store. Fruit and things. I opened up the freezer. There were two handles of Smirnoff resting on three large bags of ice. We would need more ice. I closed the freezer and ran my fingers of the labels of two more handles of Cazadorés tequila and Bulleit bourbon. Overall, I thought we were fairly stocked for the four day weekend, but one could never be to sure. People came out of the wood work for the 4th of July. No telling who would show up at our front door.
I went upstairs to see what Carrie was doing. She was laying on the bed with the sheets resting on the dresser. The light was off. The room was cast in that light grey pigment that happens when the bedroom light isn't there. It was nice. The sun had been straining my eyes the whole time even though I had been driving in the backseat. Carrie was laying face down on the bed. She was wearing a skirt, so I slowly laid down on the bed and inched her dress up. She didn't flinch or move, so I pulled it up until I saw her burgundy lace *******. They looked pressed or ironed or something they looked so clean.
"What're you doing?" Carrie asked me, her face down into the mattress.
"Just looking," I said.
"At what?"
"At your ****."
"Why?"
"Cause' it's nice."
"Close the door."
I got up, closed the door, and laid back down.
"Lets put the sheets on the bed first."
"OK," I said.
We put the sheets on the bed, but couldn't wait for the pillows and the rest of the blankets. We tried to be quiet, but knew we weren't. After, we took a shower together. I rubbed Carrie's shoulders while the hot water rained down on us. She said it was better to get a massage in the shower because the hot water loosened up the muscles. I didn't know if that was true or not, but I did it anyway. I watched her as she unpacked her bag. Her hair was wet and it swung back and forth, wetting her back. She was wrapped in her favorite pink towel. Water dripped from her body down to the floor. I waited to put my things away. I had brought up very little. Mostly *****. Carrie took up most of the dresser. I had one drawer by the time we were finished.
We took a nap. After we were done sleeping, we looked outside and saw the sun had been replaced with the night. The stars and the light coming from inside of the cabin streaked out into the forest like a splash of golden florescent paint. Carrie and I poked our heads outside to listen to the creaking trees and the rustling of animals through the bush. Someone downstairs was lightly clattering dishes as they cleaned them while the smell of red maple firewood burning in the fireplace came up to our room. I took out my phone from my pocket and looked at the time.
"****," I said, "It's already 10 o'clock."
"I'm starving."
"I'm starving and need a drink."
"Let's go downstairs and see what they made."
I slipped on my 501's while Carrie straightened up her hair. We went downstairs and saw two plates with hamburgers and fries on them. Patty was at the sink cleaning the pots and pans. She was staring down into the soapy froth, humming a song to herself I couldn't understand. She hadn't heard us come down. Denny, Englend, and Kat weren't in the living room.
"Where is everybody?" I asked.
"Oh!" Patty burst. She swung around, a soaped up frying pan in her hands. "You scared the **** out of me!"
I put my hands up, "Gotcha!" I said smiling.
"They went for a walk somewhere and left all the dishes for me."
"Leave'em," Carrie said, taking Patty's hands and wiping the soap away with a rag, "Van and I will take care of them."
"I only have a few more..."
"I insist!" Carrie took Patty's arm and lead her to the couch and laid her down. I took a cup from the pantry, filled it with ice, and poured Bulliet half-way up. I handed the glass to Carrie and she brought it to Patty.
"Look at that," Patty smiled, "Full-service."
"What you get when you come up to the Dangerson cabin."
"**** right!" I exclaimed through a bite of hamburger, "Only the best here."
Patty leaned her head back after taking a long sip of the whiskey. She exhaled and closed her eyes. I watched her as her chest heaved up and down. She kicked off her shoes and let her hair fall over the armrest of the couch.
"You said they went into the woods, Patty?"
Carrie took her burger and went and sat next to Patty.
"Lift your legs up," Carrie said, "Let me sit with you."
"Yeah. They went into the woods an hour or so ago. Probably a little less."
I opened the fridge and grabbed another beer.
"What were they going out there for?"
"I have no idea."
"Probably to get firewood or something," Carrie said, "Can you grab me one of those."
"Sure," I said, tossing her one.
"Wait," She yelled, throwing her hands in the air. The beer landed right in one of her flailing hands.
"Nice catch," I laughed, opening the fridge and grabbing another.
"You're such a ****!"
I smiled and walked out onto the deck.
"He really is," I heard Carrie tell Patty.
"I heard that!"
"You were meant to!" she called back to me, laughing.
I shook my head and opened the can of beer. Why did they decide to go get firewood now? We had plenty of wood here already. Patty probably didn't know what she was talking about. That happened often. I strained my eyes to see through the darkness, maybe see if I could spot a flashlight or the round end of a lit cigarette, but the forest was just a wash of thick blackness. Even the stars had grown faint.
"Englend!" I shouted.
Nothing. Not a peep. They were far out there.
"Englend!" I shouted again.
"What the hell are you shouting at?" a voice said from the trees. I couldn't tell who it was, but it was someone I knew.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Well who the hell do you think it is?" It was Englend. He came out of the trees like a wild boar. He had a handle of whiskey in one hand with a pile of small twigs and firewood in the other. What came to mind first was a mix between a drunken Brawny guy and a pinecone.
"What's all the screaming about?" Kat asked, trailing behind Englend. Denny followed behind. They all had armfuls of wood. From what I saw, little would be useful, but I kept that to myself.
Englend came up the deck and handed me the handle. I took a long pull. As I drank, I looked up into the stars, which were now out and shining brighter than they were before. A cloud had moved, wavered off somewhere, presenting the gifts that were behind it. I lowered the bottle and watched Denny and Kat walk up the stairs. They were smiling.
"What are you two so happy about?" I asked, handing Denny the whiskey.
"Gimme' that!" Kat snagged it out of my hand, laughing. She took a long pull. Denny, Englend, and I watched, amazed that little hippy Kat could take such a heavy shot.
"Good God," I murmured.
"She drinks like a pirate," said Denny.
"A ****** pirate," added Englend.
Kat was especially small. Not a small person small, but petite. She also had a great *** and could out drink, out party, and out do the rest of us in debaucherous shenanigans. She had never heard of the word or feeling of shame either and did, really, whatever the hell she felt like.
"I heard that you *******," she said, exhaling, blinking her eyes wildly.
"That was a biggun'," Denny said, taking the bottle and pulling it.
"Needed it. Englend had us wandering around the ******* forest for firewood the minute we got here."
"Do we even need any?" I asked.
"Course we do!" Englend exclaimed, "Gotta' keep our ladies warm!"
He put his arm around Kat and shook her.
"Gross..." Kat frowned, her face pickling while she squirmed out of his arms.
"You love it Kat...where's Patty? Where's my babe!?" Englend thundered off into the house.
"I'm right here," Patty squealed. She was still on the couch with Carrie. She kicked her feet crazily as Englend jumped on her. Carrie jumped off just before he cannon balled onto the couch.
"You guys are SICK!" Carrie screamed.
"You love it," they both said in unison. The two of them play wrestled until Patty finally got Englend by the ***** and kissed him.
Denny handed Kat the bottle," You want another?" he asked.
"I'm good, Denny," she said.
"Hank?" He asked me.
"I'll take one, yeah," I said. I pulled it back as Kat went inside. I exhaled and looked at Denny, "So, you and Kat are the only two legitimate single people here. How you feel about that?"
"Hopeful," he said.
"That's good to hear. I'll see what Carrie can do."
"Sweet," he said nervously.
"Let's get inside. Patty made some burgers."
"Thank God," Denny sighed, shaking his head, "I'm ******* starving. Englend had us walking for ******' miles.
"No idea why. We have plenty of wood downstairs."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Lots of it. I cut a bunch the last time I was here."
"******," he laughed, "Englend told us were out."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," I said. We walked into the kitchen. I put the bottle down next to Carrie, who had made her way from the couch back into the kitchen. She looked at the bottle, then at me.
"What you drinking there?" she asked me looking at the bottle.
"Whiskey," I told her.
"Can you not drink so much?" she whispered so no one could hear her.
"I'm good," I said, taking her hand, "I just drank a little bit outside while I was waiting for Englend. They went on a wild goose chase for firewood."
"Good."
"Denny was telling me they went all over for the stuff."
"Why?" she smiled, "We have so much from the last time we were up."
"That's what I was telling Englend, but he didn't care. Guy gets antsy."
"Who's antsy?" Englend called from the couch. Patty was wrapped up in his eyes, looking drunk from the single shot Carrie and I had given her. Kat was on the couch with a beer. Denny was hovering by the door, rocking back and forth on his heels still holding an armful of fire wood.
"Why don't you just leave that by the door?" I told Denny, "Take a seat. Stay a while."
He dropped the firewood by the side of the front door and took a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace by Kat. He looked up at her and smiled, but she didn't notice. She was sipping her beer, rummaging around in her pocket for something.
"What I was saying was that you guys didn't need to get anymore firewood or kindling or whatever the hell you guys got because we have a lot from the last time Carrie and I were up."
"I saw those logs," said Englend, "And they're ******* twigs compared to what we got!"
Everyone laughed.
"Well," I said, opening the fridge for another beer (I wasn't sure where my other one had gone to), "I'm not taking the **** down."
"All good, we'll take it down."
"You'll take it down," said Kat, "We had to walk through half of the ******* forest to get to your secret wood spot, then walk back. I'm finished with wood for now."
"Fine," Englend moaned, "I'll take it down in the morning."
"I'll help you," Denny added.
"Good! We got two big guys to do it. It'll be done in no time."
I turned around and opened up the cabinet that was filled with shot glasses. I took six out, put them on the table, and filled them with whiskey.
"Let's take a group shot before we all start getting snuggly and sleepy."
"Great idea!" Englend shouted, popping up from the couch.
"For America!" Patty giggled, following Englend.
Kat helped Denny from the floor and walked over to the counter. They parted hands when Denny was on his feet, but I could tell he wouldn't mind holding her hand for the duration of the trip.
"I'm glad to have you all here," I said, "Glad we could do this."
Everyone nodded, smiling, holding their golden brown shots in the air.
"For America," I said.
"For America!" the rest of them yelled. We soaked in the glory of fine whiskey and hazy conversation for the rest of the night.
Everyone was moving slow in the morning. Englend seemed to be the most up out of everyone. I walked into the kitchen to him whipping 12 eggs, grating cheese, pan frying potatoes, bubbling coffee, and pouring orange juice into mimosa flutes. The champagne was already out. I thought, a little alcohol will probably do me some good. It did. After my third glass, I kissed Carrie when she groggily walked into the living room. She preceded to slump onto the couch. I brought her a cup coffee and some Advil. She smiled meekly into my glazed over, blood shot eyes. I could tell she was hurting, but she would be right in a couple hours. Once we got into the river, all would be right.
"Jesus," said Carrie, "You guys are already drinking?"
"Of course!" Englend laughed, "It's the fourth and it's already noon. We're behind if anything."
"And Englend made breakfast," I said.
"I can see th

we met like two birds landing on a wire
and chattered with our chirping sounds that sing
at distance where no flights could we conspire

though thoughts of love nests set our ******* on fire
like humans holding tight to form a ring
we met like two birds landing on a wire

that laid upon the face of earth's attire
so far that only light-boxes could bring
at distance where no flights could we conspire

yet caught by love like wings snagged in a brier
two lovebirds sought to ease loneliness's sting
we met like two birds landing on a wire

and dreamed since then of hatchlings we could sire
with eggshells cracking at the scent of Spring
at distance where no flights could we conspire

above the clouds now dreams have floated higher
and soaring past the heavens there do sing
we met like two birds landing on a wire
at distance where no flights could we conspire

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

Above my home where the dark clouds
curl into the sky clinging for a home to
rest their sleepy depiction, shadowed
trees hum sweet lullabies, lonely leaves
breathe in the sad song of fallen dimensions,
letting its lifeless view roll upon their frame,
the chilled breeze sailing in the skyline,
as I scramble my way out of a filthy dumpster,
a mountain of disintegrating mess covering
my broken body, hovering flies surrounding
sticky strips of spaghetti, moldy mashed potatoes,
and moldy chicken *** pies, while my mind sunk
into traveled thoughts, bruised hands pressed against
the creases in my forehead, allowing my existence
to feel the stranded scars streaming in various mazes,
dull eyes flushed with a burning disorder, aching cheeks
and chests nestled in darkening chamber corners, buried
hips and thighs uprooting in somber blades of grass,
thorned, torn, and destroyed in different worlds.  As I stood
on the slippery pavement staring at the ruffled scenery
in my sight, spinning streetlights thickening into slouched
positions, screaming sidewalks spilling sadness and madness
in the drenched air, razor-edged buildings inching into crushed
centimeters, jumbled meters, ****** yards.  I replayed the sober
images in my head, the way my young brown-skinned mom said
I would never amount to anything, how I could hear the raged
noun ****** sift into the distance, its flaming mechanics
accelerating into screeching sounds, the way she hurled
her fists at my smashed face, every vibrant language
breaking apart, slamming shut into closed infinites,
snagged contractions and gerunds diverging into
shuddering double spaced negatives, the way she threw
my lingering body inside the trash dumpster, her sharp
scarlet words, You are no son of mine, ricocheting off
savage surfaces, sparking my soul in a calamity
of choking diction.

Went our hunting, shot a tree
Sure looked like a deer to me
It don't matter, I can't see
I'm an American Hunting Man

I like hunting, but, I'm blind
My dogs always stay behind
I can't shoot what I can't find
I'm an American Hunting Man

Three years ago I shot a moose
It looked to me just like a goose
Man, they're fast when they cut loose
I'm an American Hunting Man

Give me beer and loaded guns
I'm sure we're gonna have some fun
I dress in camo when I can
I'm an American Hunting Man
I'm an American Hunting Man


When I'm hunting my friends are fishin'
They don't like the competition
They even give me ammunition
I'm an American Hunting Man

I've hunted deer to wild turkey
Most things I make into jerkey
My vision *****, it's kind of murky
I'm an American Hunting Man

Went fishing once and snagged my ear
Flipped the boat and spilled the beer
I gave up fishing to hunt deer
I'm An American Hunting Man

Give me beer and loaded guns
I'm sure we're gonna have some fun
I dress in camo when I can
I'm an American Hunting Man
I'm an American Hunting Man


I was shooting ducks one time
I shot a truck, but that was fine
Until I found out it was mine
I'm an American Hunting Man

Give us weaponry and beer
Then get away when we are near
There's nothing more that you can fear
Than an American Hunting Man

I have the shakes and I can't see
When I shoot once I bring down three
One for real and two for free
I'm an American Hunting Man

Give me beer and loaded guns
I'm sure we're gonna have some fun
I dress in camo when I can
I'm an American Hunting Man
I'm an American Hunting Man

I own an ugly sweater
It has tatters and tears
Misshapen patterns
And holes everywhere

From the missing tag
That’s been savagely clawed and cut out
Why companies make them so scratchy
I have yet to find out.

Cheese grader sized holes
From where hungry moths attacked
For their personal enjoyment
Or a midnight snack.

A perfectly good sweater
And being prone to sharp corners
Don’t pair well together
Just ask my unraveling thread
That’s been caught onto edges
And hideously snagged.

It’s humorously sad
Go ahead, you can laugh
Your sweater is next
The moths are coming
I promise you that.

The bottom frays like a hippy
I would say it looks cool
But that style died in the seventies
Just wait, that that trend will recycle
I’m not in denial.

The fabric and material
What’s left of it
Is a delicate cashmere…

Alright fine, it’s a scratchy wool
Ancient, archaic, and feels like Velcro.

Sometimes leaves cling
So I look like a tree
The optimistic side of me
Just says nature loves me.

But I could do without the bees
Ohh so many stings…

The insides are bumpy
From being cleaned on high heat
Now my sweater suffers from dwarfism
It’s challenged vertically.

The wrists are stretched out
From being rolled up and down
Permanently smells like dirt or meat
Depending on my activity
Or what I had to eat.

Blackened mascara speckles the sleeve
From dramatic tears
Or being too lazy to grab a tissue
As if my sweater doesn’t have enough issues
I drag in my problems
My pendulum swinging emotions
If my sweater were human
I swear, it would leave me.

It’s been thrown on the floor
Tossed in the back of my car
Tied around my waist
And forgotten in stores
I always say sorry
I hope it forgives me.

From the sleeves that cradles sneezes
Hugs are completed
Sharing germs or sharing love
All becomes one experience.
You’re welcome.

The front like a canvas
A Jackson ******* painting
Ubiquitous splatters of coffee stains.

Missing sips that dripped off my lips
From being scolding hot
Or scarce concentration
But nine times out of ten
It’s my deficient attention.

Looking like it’s been through hell
And no denying it has.
Sure, I could donate this human sized rag
But they wouldn’t know the story behind
Each stain and frayed thread.

They would see the sweater as just ugly
Dismiss there was even a journey
They wouldn’t ask
The why’s or how’s it came to be.

This sweater is not just fabric
It’s a memory
An extension of me.
…
..
.
But seriously,
I should get this dry-cleaned
It’s disgusting.

But I love it.

Sometimes I awaken from my dreams
from that soft mindless drifting that is sleep
and I get snagged
on the subtle undercurrent of worry
a swirling feeling of fragility
the antonym of youth
when I was the captain of my soul
steering with assurance
buoyed by faith in my muscle and wit.

In the slowing pace of my days
I get snagged on remembering:
the steady increase of forgetting
the ache in my knees upon standing
the declining elasticity
of my skin and my will.
All of these hiccups  
twist me toward the scratchy edge
the bleak and chancy fog
of anxiety.

This thick arrhythmia
in the music of my day
can tempt me to get stuck
in the stupid stuporous thread of
thinking: the rest of this bad day
is a foregone conclusion
instead of this confident conviction:
It's up to me
to discover the next thing
I can create,
to open the blinds
and the windows
to ***** or stick or trick
my mind,
to wake up
and imagine
or remember how it felt:
to hold an infant
to hit a solid fly ball
to see fireworks light up the dark
to win a big jackpot
to make the perfect shot
to kiss her luscious lips
to see my first eclipse.

One other trick I can do
when I trip and fall into counting my losses
or lamenting my crosses -
is to make a gratitude list.
It always works to lift the fog
and step out of my slog
to rhyme me out of the sadness bog.

I hope I'll remember these solutions
to fear's dark and dangerous pollution
and when I think I'm too **** old
to try a thing or two
I will think of the days of being bold
and live and love me
into the new.

“MindTricking,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
Written 5-6-17

"C'mon. I haven't had *** in three months and I feel like I'm going to explode."

"That's not good."

"You're telling me. Wish there was someone who'd take care of it for me."

"I'll be over in a bit."

I drove in calculated trance.
I'd made the trek hundreds of times.
I was looking forward to showing her
new tricks I'd learned,
but I feared the segue.

The desperation call from an ex--
always easy to bed, I have yet to feel regret,
but finding the energy to strike up chit-chat
before the undress--
always the hardest part.

I couldn't remember the code to her neighborhood's gate,
so I lied in wait, until some sappy black SUV
strolled in first.

I pulled into her parking spot.
Rubbed my eyes.
Sprayed on a dash of cologne.
Dragged a comb across my hair.
Looked at the clock on my dash--2:00 a.m.
I aged much too far for these
fires,
but I inhaled deeply,
slammed the car door,
marched to the door,
rang the bell--
a bark,
a scramble of paws,
then bare feet patting wooden floors.
She opened the door,
gauging my face to see if she was allowed to smile.
I put my right arm
on the low-side of her back,
peered over her shoulder.
The house was littered with dusty textbooks,
dog food, bras,
cut out magazine articles,
and half-empty cups.

"You smell good," she said easing into a grin.

"Thanks. You too."

"Want to watch some Disney Channel?"

"You're still doing that?"

"Makes me feel innocent. C'mon." She grabbed my hand.
Led me to her bedroom in the back.
Cartoons laughed
as I pulled off my shoes.
She desperately fought for conversation,
"So it's been awhile."

"Yep."

"How are classes?"

"Good," I sighed, looked at her brows, "yours?"

"They are pretty good. I am finally getting to student teach."

"Awesome."

"Yeah, it is. I really love my kids."

"They lucked out."

"I wouldn't say that."

Her ******* looked bigger.
Maybe it was the shirt.
She was in tiny khaki shorts,
her toes chipped--painted red.
She let her hair down.
Sat on the bed next to me.

"How are the fellas?"

"Nonexistent. How's the girlfriend?"

"We're on a break."

"Sorry to hear that."

"For the best."

She kept curling her toes
under her ***,
her hands tugged at her shirt
anxiously,
the cartoons went to commercial break,
she started to open her mouth again,

"Sooo--"

I snagged her hands,
pinned her to the bed,
licked the exposed portion of her chest,
unbuttoned her shorts.
Pink ******* with white roses on them,
I pulled them off quickly,
threw them as far away as possible.
I gnawed on her thighs,
while sneaking my hands under her shirt,
her ******* were exceptionally vocal--
more so than any other woman's I have seen.
I tore at her shirt and bra until both were gone.
She stared at me wildly, trying to understand
where the old man she once knew had gone.
I ******,
I fingered,
I spat,
until her body ached,
she ran her fingertips along my waistband,
and undressed me.
Trying to inspire an *******.
She slurped
and rubbed at my *****,
I started to grab a ******,
but she said she was on "beastly" birth control.
I turned her around,
pumped from behind,
not wanting to look at her eyes
or gaping mouth,
I sent my mind off to fantasizing about
other mouths, *******, and *****
in an attempt to stay hard,
after half-an-hour or so,
her body convulsions became so grotesque,
I pulled out without finishing.

While she shook on the bed,
I pulled on my pants,
"Well, I should probably go."

"I was hoping you'd sleep over."

"We aren't like that."

"We used to be."

"Relationships change."

"So you think we still have a relationship?"

"Sure."

"So do you still love me?"

"No. It's more of a pornographic relationship."

I left her room,
while a tween sitcom mocked me with a laugh track,
I glanced at her family portraits outside her room.
Went into the night.
Went home.
Slept without taking a shower.
Woke to find myself unchanged.
Weary.
Meaningless.
Thirsty for love, sorrow, remorse--anything.

A golden thread connects us
Although it seems impossible it could be that long
It seems to stretch across continents
It joins up the water and land that lie between us
Threaded through airports and harbour walls
It effortlessly knits up plains and cities

A golden thread connects us
Although it seems impossible it could be that strong
It sketches a random pattern, known only to us
Disparate, otherwise unconnected backpages
Mississipi, Dallas, Mountain View, Santa Barbra
Stoneybatter, Skerries, Paris, Milan

A golden thread connects us
Although it seems impossible to think for how long
It stitches and gathers up time; so when you said
"It could be a thousand years or five minutes since we met"
I knew we both thought that forever is possible  
That everything previous would make sense of our present

A golden thread connects us
Although it seems impossible to see how it could
From a distance I saw you go through revolving doors
The golden hair caught my eye, flowing as you walked
I was a man trapped, saved only by one fact
That a golden thread had snagged on my clothes

I am cobwebs and smoke.
I am shards of a person who cannot decide
The difference between
Love
And god.
I am razorblades and thin air.
I am ink and shadows.
I am drowning in moonlight-
I am a spun web of starlight and wanting.
I am the wire frame of myself-
See through shape with nothing inside.
I am the wrong port in this storm,
Sending out beams of
Don't-ignore-me,
Blades of light that split the hazy fog of apathy.
You've sewn me with seeds of humanity
And I feel the life beneath my skin
Like it will sprout
Roots
Any day now.
I have a ribcage full of fireflies
That shine through the spaces when I breathe.
I have glimpsed dreamcatchers
In your eyes
And snagged my darkness in their dizzy thrall.

Rip off the band-aid, get it over with
I never thought it would come to this
Clear mind, clear eyes
Walking straight, no more lies

Don't rely on me and I won't let you down
You can't count on me, I'll only let you down
Don't reach out for me, I'll only let you drown

These feelings are getting harder to fight myself
Pulling teeth to admit I need some help
It's cutting deep on the webbings of my hand
Eyes wide open in a pile of sand

Tell me how is it I can fix this
Walk around the house feeling like a misfit
How can I numb this without a drink
Emptying bottles in the kitchen sink

Clean my wounds with a bottle of Jack
Drinking my way to forget the past
You followed me into the pits of hell
Just to show you that I can't get well

Don't rely on me and I wont let you down
You can't count on me, I'll only let you down
Don't reach out for me, I'll only let you drown

...and there’s no one there to hear it,
does it make a sound?
_______

My poetry performed—
before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups
Their faces toward me in unison—
they listen
Intense, motionless energy
Velvet applause of purple and
Yellow yelling!

Encore
of performing in the perfume
with a troop of lilacs
They will remember me
While I— await their return to May
through billowing miles
of drowsing sachet
breathing euphorias
between the lingerie of clouds

What happens after ecstasy?

Grieving in life’s presence?
Loss of mind to self-possession?
____

...and when my sense of smell gives out
I will hold on for a while
to the walker of hearing
trying not to stumble past
the song of thrush
beyond me in the blurring leaves
once so clearly—
crinkled, shiny, and infant green….
___

As a child I held on to nothing
for dear life
I could cup a storm in my hands!
Could run with the rhythm of a horse!
I could fly in my mind’s eye
if the ferns I used were only wings!
If I pretended hard enough
I could eat my own home-baked mud pies!

If only I could be—

more than a fledgling of eight
so earthbound, clumsy  
___

But while the lilacs were out of town
thunder met the flash
and gutted summer!

I ran for dear life!
from the amazing distance of its echoes
pelted by its gentle gift
Snagged by growing things—
the clinging prattle
of their momentous tendrils....  
____

Lovers run off the path
past water lilies
along the swollen veins to the river
toward a grave and pounding heart

The Ancient Flood was jealous....

Now when the wind softens
and rain is tossed
last, and only from the leaves
may their encore be cupped in the hands
of some passer-by
Remembering—
that either because of a trifling wind
or the weight of time...

a tree fell here
clubbing the river’s bank senseless

you think this is real
smoke and glitter
backed up with mirrors
convincing yourself
it is all in hand
but
the floor has cracks
and
your stiletto is snagged


@journeyofdays

no count-downs for birthday parties
no arm wrestles, no jump shots
no go-cart donuts
not even a snowball

where did we go?

blond hair
up to my shoulders
surrounded by jewels
some empty-paned picture frame
couple sprouts beneath a pine
saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak
red clay on your feet
pink frosting in your teeth
me, sheathed in my favorite shirt
"I'm the big sister!"
with a butterfly depicting
what I've yet to become

how wrong have we gone?

well, I'll be twenty
once spring rolls around
and brother
you're not far behind
I can't tell time
to change its mind
but I promise you
it won't be changing mine
from the photographs, scrapbooks
I'll forever feel your laughter
just like goosebumps
the brail I'm reading into
let's gaze past glares
straight through white sunbeams
spiking your brown eyes
twice as deep as mine
the truest shades
on the face of the earth
to this very
foggy day
this mirror, this moment snagged
before shutters snap
and capture us, splatter us
on matte paper, or cell screens
with brown hair
up to your shoulders

way to go, little brother
but I'm still keeping that tee
because the only thing
I've always been proud to be
is your big sister

crew-cut,
winter’s rust,
my tongue smudged with coal,
snagged with the bug I rise,
crawl my stare across space to where you lie
perfect in ashes,
un-spread and boxed,
I plant a kiss on your screaming lily.

Little Red Riding Hood's Last Stroll

Twas the darkest of nights in the prarie woodland
Little Red Riding Hood walked the raven strand
Her beaten path was strewn with briar and thistle band
Losing her way, she stumbled into the murky lowland
   
A steamy fog cut through the bleary bog
The rancid odor of vaporous springs did the air clog
A venomous frog full of spite sat on a jagged log
Vampire bats with their ebony capes the putrid air did flog

A Hoot owl from overhead bellowed out a dolesome refrain
Sprightly shadows followed forming a loathsome train
Every few seconds, an eery howl filled the air with a portentous strain
Creepy, crawling insects fiddled a tune of disdain

Little Red Riding Hood's heels became mired in the porous, sandy soil
Discarding her sandals, she screeched; slimy leeches clasped each, bleached sole
Thirsty, Vampire bats veered all about seeking her ****** blood to spoil
Frightened to her wits' end, she sat down on a log to weigh her dreary toll

Unbeknownst to her, the spiteful toad for a wary companion did troll
Taking aim, that malicious toad took a gleeful caper landing on her ****** mole
Discharging his vitriolic potion, Little Red Riding Hood screamed as the pain through her blanched tissue did roll
A minute later, her callous mole was transformed into a pusy, seething boil

Leaping from her bartered stool, she ran into the foreboding wood
Her homely cape snagged on an extended limb and from her fragile arm  spilt blood
The whiff of fresh, warm blood was immediately sensed by a wolf pack brood
Hearing the howling pack approaching, she froze right where she stood

Remembering Grandmother's wise advice, she climbed the nearest tree
Not realizing therein lay a poisonous snake perched so sprightly
Arriving on the scene first, the Druid lapped up the trail of blood that gushed from her wound so freely
To placate the menacing brood, she tossed down some of grandmother's crumpets briskly

A second later, the coiled up snake lunged at its helpless target with lightning speed 
Alarmed, Little Red Riding Hood whirled about wrapping around her the flailing snake like a nimble reed
Losing her balance, she fell headlong into the hungry jaws of gluttonous greed
That ravenous brood lapped up the crumpets, diced up the snake, and did the nimble limbs of Little Red Riding Hood knead

A word of caution to every rambling, ambling tite
If ever you venture into the perilous copse at night
Beware of the spiteful vermin that scour and stalk with stealthy might
And never from the beaten trail stray or malicious malcontents will your innocence spite

i am overwhelmed;
bursting through plaster cracks
and jagged leftovers of stained
glass, my mouth full of wet fire
and heavy things and my limbs
shaking and shaking and shaking.
i have been devoured by love
for you—its teeth have never been
honed this sharp before they have
never snagged so deep but i think
they do now because love wants to
hold on this time, tear the protective
barrier of flesh and bullet-ridden hesco
skin off of my bones. it’s okay, i would
love to be eaten: i want the bites to crawl
up and down my fingertips and tiptoe
in zig-zags up my spine until all i can do
is sing and cry and listen to the
insatiable beating of my ink-swathed
heart. i have only ever loved literature
until these moments but now i have
made you into a book and will
tattoo your words at the crook
of my elbow and in the soft
craters of my chest;
god, i will read you for eternity.

Sleeves of scars
and a garter of silver lines and burns
oh the hurt I've endured
Seated by the fire as a child
Lord knows I've had thoughts like this for a while
I'd dwell on the discretion I took
brooding over every hook that snagged my flesh
made a mess
of the little girl I never was
and they who shook me
pet me from the inside out
must have forgotten to what degree
their consumptive hands made me bleed
God how I wish they could see
every stain left with or without cause
was provoked by their nostalgic applause
but I don't even blame them
It was a conscious disease
perniciously eating
still chewing at me.

they snagged on her gown
as she attempted to flee
the retched night that had gone horribly wrong,

they worked with the enemy
to ensure she would not escape this town,

piercing her satin embroidery
and tearing at the draped silk,

hooking into her flesh, softer than a rose’s petal.

she gasped as pain struck her
and little rivers of blood streamed down her skin

The troubadour planted his last name between
a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos;
rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City,
where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours
for a week straight.

To escape, to begin.

He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to
sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between
lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to
recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all.
He shared a room with two high fashion,
burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and
one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour,
was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air,
code for a cigarette.

"She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed,
atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you.

Viv brought him between her legs.

"Gentle. Gentle," she said.

The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her ****. A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop."

And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-**** escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the  brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.

I find you in the margins of old school books,
in the cupboard where I keep my old notepads,
in the stories I’ve forgotten I’ve written.
It’s all scraps of myself in rounded letters,
uncanny because it looks like me,
sounds like me,
but it’s you and it is you
but it’s like me too.

I’m opening you (and me) back up and I hate you.
I hate you, but here we are,
in the mirror maze,
all these mes and yous
in the endless tunnel of mirrors,
back to back, side to side,
caught in ourselves at every angle.
We’re all the same: We’re all so different.
None of us are good.

I hate you.

I hate you at every age,

Then reality splays, sprawls flat out in front of me, exams, money, work, decisions, tight nooses that bind me to life. Get your head out of the clouds, girl  *(2012)

at every stage,

Big smiles, A stars, clever girl, the anomaly, dry compliments, sand paper against my skin. Locked in, not a word, just a mind gone grey, a growing mass of dust that swallows the light and only allows for glasses poured half empty* (2014)

at every moment,

I don’t fit in, never have done, never will. I’m always one step ahead or one step behind. I’m never quite there. But no one understands. They say they do but they don’t. I’m different and I don’t like it but I don’t want to change because this is who I am and whatever happens, I have to put up with it (2012)

all your hatred, you happiness, your ignorance and your sadness

The scab peels and leaks. Too soon to heal, too late to undo the fall. Tomorrow, you’ll trip again and your skin will bleed but this time you’ll know where to find the first aid kit. (2013)

You make me sick.

The world was blue today, a metaphorical wish wash of tears and a meagre ocean. Ice cream dripped in depression, picnic blankets snagged on pebbles and the kite committed suicide on the telephone lines. (2013)

I hate the scraps you’ve left behind

I put bits of you in the bin. I put you out for recycling.
I donate you to charity shops and so you live on and I can’t get rid of you.
There’s no way out of this mirror maze,
no way to avoid the mirrors at angles,
no way for me to escape you or for you to escape me.

There are so many of you and I literally want to beat you all to death.
Oh, I hate you. I hate you.
I don’t think I’ve ever hated anything more than I hate you.
I hate the tone of your words,
I hate your stupid sadness.
I hate your happiness.
I hate your hope.
I hate the memories of your laughter.
I hate the memories of your fun.
I hate you for all the things you’ve done and
never had time to feel bad for.
I hate you in the photographs,
in the words, in the schoolbooks,
in the poems that I’ve shared,
I hate, I hate, I hate.

I wish I could smash up this maze of mirrors and you,
but then I’d only be left with myself
and I hate her too.

I called to you 
softly when I 
was young; my
voice bounced off 
the bricks of a 
suburban slum,
sauntered down 
side streets and 
stirred piles of 
leaves, then snagged 
in the branches till 
the wind tore it free 

to collapse at your 
window like a 
weary songbird
that had been 
singing for decades 
and finally, you heard.

"*******, you got ***** by the sun," Molly discovered
as she lifted my stained, white, awkward v-neck off.
She proceeded to kiss down my San Diegan,
sun-painted spine.
"Does it hurt?"

"Nah, do you want more wine, foxy?"

"Sure, just a little bit. I'm feelin' pretty good."

I snagged the bottle from the freezer,
tore the cork out with my teeth,
as I was grabbing her glass off the counter,
I heard her unbutton, unzip, and undress
her loose jeans and her cotton *******,
I heard her throw them to the floor,
as I finished pouring.

I turned,
she was pulling a blanket over
her milky legs, settling into the couch.
As I drew close to her exposed black toenails,
I smiled in pseudo-polite fashion,
"You know these 3-4 a.m. calls gotta stop.
You're going to ******' **** me."

She giggled in a high pitch,
like a perfect 10-year-old,
it made me even more on edge,
"Oh shut up," laugh, laugh, continued,
"you know you love it. We couldn't
do this any other time."

I handed over her glass,
sat in front of her curled toes
on the ridge of the couch.

Her black fingernails skidded
along my weather-beaten skin.
There was no empathy, no exhalation,
no rejuvenation in them.
I had hit a deep low.
Not even the coast could save my soul.

I didn't dance around it,
I skipped ahead to my favorite question,
"How are things with your fella?"
My inflection made the question seem painless
to answer, and maybe it was, but it was hard
to listen.

"Um, well, we broke up on Thursday."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, anywayz, he called me last night,
asking if he could come chit-chat with me,
I said I guess so, and we stayed up like all
night, and we really worked everything out.
It felt so good to clear it up. So we are back
together, to normal, I suppose. What got me
was he told me he loved me and would-"

"Would do anything for you? Or some **** like that?"

"Well, yeah. God, what is your problem? You've
been acting like a **** all night."

I swallowed, with desert difficulty,
grabbed her glass, took a large drink,
she tried to take it out of my hand,
but I pushed her fingers away,
looked straight in her pretty, deceiving eyes,
they were getting antsy, I waited for the alcohol
to hit my head, and once it did,
I cleared my throat, and maintaining
the theme of cool detachment said,
"Molly," exhale, "you are a ******* idiot."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I said you are a ******* idiot."

"You have no roo-"

"Hey, it isn't just you. ******' victim of your age.
Every girl I know is hung up on some *******,
that didn't really do anything special,
just timed dating with some holy moment in your life.
It all comes down to laying your claim at the right time.
When your head is still doped with that 'the one' crap."

"You have no ******* clue what you are talking about!
The first time I kissed him I felt like I would
be kissing only him for the rest of my life."

"You were 18."
I said barely above a whisper.
Molly was straining, tears were welling,
my mouth was spitting out everything,
that within a few hours' wisdom,
I would come to regret.

"Love isn't reserved for a certain age, *******!"

"That may be true, but let me just say this: if he is
'the one', then why are you here?
Your true love didn't come with a special rider
enabling the privilege of sporadic 4 a.m. *****
with people that are so beat down,
you assume them to never give a ****."
Every venomous word, stated calmly, collected,
with light cruelty.

"I....I..." her voice was cracking, spiraling,"I don't know
you just seemed interesting."
She buried her face in my arm,
I took another drink from her glass,
stared straight ahead.
She was muttering muffled things like, "I really do love him"
into my arm and torso.

She spat and moaned for 15 minutes are so.
Volumes rose and fell in cascades
of civil war. The roar dulled to a whimper,
the whimper dulled to silence.

She regained her composure,
she stood up, no nervousness,
she recovered her naked lower body,
she got the button in the loop and
the silence I tore,
"I didn't sign up to be an asterisk,
some ******* footnote in the history
of your love. I wanted to save you."

Molly laughed.
She ******* laughed.

Molly rolled her eyes.

She rested one hand on
hot skin,
grabbed my chin with the other,
and aimed my gaze toward her.

"Don't lie. You aren't allowed to.
We've been friends too long for that.
You needed a muse, a change of pace,
and I hate to say it, but you are
always going to be somebody's footnote
if you don't have any self-respect.
You never let yourself be happy.
You are too caught up in experiencing
all the lows to allow yourself to
feel high. You used to be so much
fun. You used to be so sweet.
Try to find that guy again."

With that,
Molly grabbed her purse,
kissed my forehead,
slid into her shoes,
strolled smooth and soft
out the door and into
the early morning air.
I took another drink.

Everyday I saw them flying
Heard them screaming
Cursed their noisy presence
Resented the danger they presented to my wards
The baby fish that I was charged with
One tourist commented that
"Kingfishers sure are beautiful birds"
I agreed solemnly (out loud) but privately I didn't agree at all
Didn't see any beauty in their white and grey feathers
Didn't hear it in their coarse shrieks
Then today
I was taken aback by a strange shape flapping and struggling above the water
It was one of them, one of the kingfishers
Somehow he had snagged his wing on a fish hook and was dangling helplessly
I saw blood and torn flesh, my approach simply made him more frantic
I tried to pull the hook out but it was viciously intertwined with the creature
My hand brushed incredibly soft and downy feathers
His eyes were wide with panic, his thin, powerful beak open in bleak desperation
I put my hand out to lift him
His black claws put pressure on my hand, relieved pressure from the fishing line
and allowed me to extract the lethal hook from his ruffled, ravaged wing
He flew, he was scared of me,
he fell back to the water
I was ready to save him but he was swept out of sight
I stood there thinking
How terrible for a creature of the sky to die in the water
How scared he must be to be surrounded by the wrong kind of blue
Sinking instead of soaring
Then I saw a kingfisher suddenly fly up behind me
It might have been the same one but I'm not sure
Logic tells me that it must have been him
But my heart remains sad
and tells me no

Cindy Prine's bee buzz ringtone ripped her from
her deathlike slumber,
"Hello. Oh, hey Mom. What? Yeah, I'll be in tonight.
I agree...no, no I won't be brining Mattie. The Wilks
have her. They are wonderful with her. I love you too.
No, it'll probably sevenish. Not seven. Sevenish."

The Candy Corn Suite reeked of ****** fallout.
Sheets still wet and sticky with sweat.
The checkered floor covered in beer and discarded condoms.

Her ******* ached.
Most of the men had been awkward,
frightened, and easy to finish.
Hank, the porky 'friend of a friend', however,
had been brutal.
By the time he had finished,
her *** turned a light purple,
her back covered in spittle;
her scalp felt barely intact.

Cindy smelled pancakes and went downstairs.
"Good morning, darling. You want some hotcakes
and coffee?"

"Sure, Mama."

In the lobby, the Children's Funhouse looked like a ****** continental breakfast. Patrons from the night before and the workers
often sat side-by-side for what surely can lay claim to the
worst breakfast environment in the history of mankind.

"Will I have the pleasure of your company for a while, this time?"

"I'm afraid not. I need some time away from everything."

"Everything?"

"Todd, the baby, it's just depressing.
I'm twenty-*******-years-old, ya' know?
I did not sign up for domestication."

"Right on. Hell, neither did I," Chung-Ae Phun laughed
and curtsied, "So, where you going Cindy Lilly?"

"Back to my mom's for a bit."

"Are you two close?"

"Um, she is a brilliant woman.
We've never been able to talk,
but I guess you could say
I respect her."

"Fair enough. Cream or sugar?"

"No, thanks."

"How was Hank last night?"

"Oh, God, that ****! He--"

"What about my ****?" Hank blurted with a sinister, crinkled edge of lip.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I had no idea you were still here!"

"Why the **** should that matter," he snarled grabbing her tiny left arm.

"Hank, leave her alone," Madame Phun said sternly.

"She's just a little *****, Chung-baby."

"Hank, you need to leave."

"**** that. Not after the money I wasted on last night.
You promised me she was top rate.
I want my money back."

"Hank. This is not some fast-food joint,
where you come back to the counter
and ***** after you've eaten your burger!
Judging by the panting, sweaty mess you were
last night, she did just fine."

Cindy Prine reached for the intersection of her *** crack and belt line,
wrapped her trembling fingers around the hammer.

"Well, then I think I deserve another one on the house.
Can we make that compromise?"

"This isn't ******* Craig's List either, Hank. Get out!"

"I want another lay with this Lilly broad."

"Absolutely NOT--"

Cindy interrupted, "No, no it's okay, Mama."
Hank grinned, his gut seemed grow, the
hair around his arms spread like vines.
"Is it okay if we do it in your truck?
My room is an absolute mess."

"Fine by me. How I usually do it, anyway."

Hank opened the door for Cindy, in faux chivalry,
then proceeded to his side.
The cab felt like hell, and the metallic seatbelt burnt Cindy's skin.
"Where should we start?" Hank asked staring at Cindy's chest.

"How about you just relax for a second."
Cindy rubbed his crotch firmly, Hank closed his lids
and sunk into his chair, as he let out the first sigh,
Cindy snatched the hammer with her right hand and
quickly struck him
one-
two-
three
times.

Hank's skull sprung a leak. Blood spewed onto the dashboard.
Cindy shoved him to his side, snagged his wallet,
and proceeded
to crack three or four of his ribs.

We were both still quite sleepy.
She laid her head in my lap in
fetal position for most of the ride
and I nodded off as the thunder
rumbled, and rocked me to sleep,
my head lolling to one side.
It was miserable out.
The sky was a toxic, smoky gray,
swollen and bruised purple
like rotting flesh, and the rain,
so incessant, berated the windshield
of the cab the whole ride to the theater
and all the while after we had handed
a couple crumpled dollars to the driver
and gotten in the cue.

We had our backstage passes
tucked away into our coats,
we didn't want any of the
regulars to see. She huddled
closer to me to guard her
ashen lips from the needle ******
of the wind, that would bring a tear
to her eye when they scraped against
the tip of her nose. She was thinking,
as she fingered the strap of the shiny,
clean, new camera
she bought to photograph us doing
***** things, the lens
reflecting all of her good intentions,
warm feelings onto me.

As a vendor strode by I snagged
up two cups of coffee, and handed one to her
and then we sank back into the shivering,
shuddering mass. She took a few sips, as I drew
the flame to my cigarette, ducking behind her
and cupping the tip in order to get it lit,
I could see the steam dissipating into the cold,
wet air. She smiled with amusement and
after a few moments looked up and whispered to me
"I want him at his best. I hope he's super depressed."
I said
"Yeah",
as I exhaled the smoke and simultaneously, in one heave,
cleared my throat,
"I hope he ******* hates us."

Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.

His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers
And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces
And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched ***.
His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth.
His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard
And his insults were sharp staccatos
And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk
And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread.
His eyebrows were gargoyle wings
And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass  
He sang, and it was cough syrup
And his beard was a soiled litter box.
His fingers, dried seaweed
And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges.
His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun
His grin was a snagged zipper
And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September  
And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes
And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss.
His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey.
His chest was the backside of a dung beetle.
His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog
And his knees were skulls
And his touch was a snug pressure cuff  
And his compassion was a guillotine
And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.

I wish I could find
Another
Word
One plucked from a
Chicken or
Snagged to a line
But all I have is
Drift
You
Laughing
Like a drunken
Gondolier
This momentous
Rise of horns
And the little
Spittles of foam
That froth at
Our legs
The sea
Creates you
A scarf
And you turn
To look at me
Your eyes
Drifting
Through the notes
Around me
Sweet
Music
Who are you
If not mine
To keep

Your innocent way of snaking open my heart
And tip toeing your pride inside
Shaking up everything in my kingdom
You slam the door to my heart
Over and over
Rattling my bones
Shattering my hopes
Destroying my foundation
Oh how you warned me
But I let you
I watched you take every single piece of my being
That I've spent so much time repairing
And played with it
Until you realized that you didn't know how
So you drained my moat of insecurities
And dismantled my walls of trust
You reconstructed a structure to support your own walls
You called it love
I call it devious selfishness
But within the pain
There was something different about you
And my gut was snagged on it
You've come through with explanations that were in my favor
Pain was never your plan
A submission of a simple antidote was issued
But you never took a second to listen to me
Your selfish needs defeated your focus
Its either everything or nothing with you
We could've waited this out together
Just to sit tight as friends
Wasting no time devouring each others company
Until the dust settled
But according to your behavior
You're just so entirely and terribly confused
At the beginning
When you charged the castle
My mind saw you holding control
Confident with your foot through the door
But time reveals how you're not even a brave warrior
You're just a floppy little jellyfish
You started this trouble and backed out
Before you could finish it
Leaving the ties untied
Letting words be unsaid
Losing the desire to act
And although whispers of secret lust
And crazy attraction
Linger on our lips
Where's the ambition that started this mess
Dig deep and find it
I'm begging you to finish this struggle
Don't make me finish it for you
Be spontaneous
Be forward
Be the strong confident girl that you showed me you could be
You can't lose
After all this destruction
The doors will open with just a glance of your light
You made it far enough into my heart
Please don't turn back now
I honestly just want you to know
That I'm still here
While you cower in a corner of fear
Wallowing in all your questions
Instead of acting on the emotions that are tearing you apart
Give me a chance to show you a whole new world
I'm still standing tall
For you...
You can't stay there
In a place that's unhealthy and miserable
Too scared to come out
So it's safe and predictable...
I can see it in your eyes that you're craving so much more
These feeling are killing you
Let them free and finish what you started
Step all the way through the door
And I'll catch you on the other side

Tell me or show me once
I will not forget because I’m no dunce.
Saw you show me the day before
What I witnessed would have dropped you to the floor.
Heard it had to be done on another
I wanted to ask my mentor something
but he somehow read my mind,
Before the question, could come aloud.
Grab the gloves, and just relax, those were the facts.
You saw what I did now it’s your turn.
I found the target with my eyes and then with my hands
  And yes, you felt like you had a case of freezer burn.
Scalpel in my right, your ticker in my left
Like an augur in the ice I sliced you a hole
Fingers then went fishing like having a pole.
Wanting a trophy that is my next goal.
Lowering the hooks into you now
I poked and then pulled your skin apart.
Found what I was searching for
Snagged it on a line I got it somehow.
Pulled it up and then out the hole,
Like in a action packed movie,
I picked the red wire to snip first,
Closed my eyes and thank GOD there was no burst.
All day it seemed I was on the prowl.
Now that the day is over,
I can wipe my sweat with a paper towel.

(CARSr 2012)

They’d found him, emaciated and tick-ridden,
Down near the docks on Smith Boulevard,
Surrounded by several fellow tabbies
Possessed of the apparent inclination to disregard any taboo
Enjoining them from enjoying one of their own as a hors d’oeuvre.
He’d weighed no more than eight pounds or so,
Closer to six if you scraped off the mats and vermin,
But he’d gotten over that in short order,
As his diet consisted of fried chicken livers
And any bits of tuna sandwich his owner might leave lying about
(Though Jerry Kiley was not a small man himself,
And philosophically opposed to the notion of leftovers as well)
So before long he became utterly Falstaffian
(As Father Maguire from Sacred Heart tut-tutted,
Why, that tom is three stone if he’s an ounce;
He gets any larger, and I’ll have to insist
You kick another two bits into the plate)
And Kiley had to fashion him a bed from a milk crate
Buttressed with sheet metal
Taken from a vat at the old Beverwyck Brewery.

He’d lived well (Better ‘n me, Jerry often lamented)
Though too well, perhaps,
And he’d fallen prey to the maladies of the leisure classes:
Gout, diabetes, a wheezing which sounded for all the world
Like distant cows lowing in a fairly stiff breeze.
The vet had given him any number of pills and potions,
But it all was no match for his appetite,
And he’d ended up taking the gas before he turned five.

It was decided, in the course of conversation and consolation
At the North Albany legion post bar,
That such a kind and devoted soul
Deserved a send off befitting a noble gent.
A collection was scraped together in short order,
And a viewing-***-wake took place at Jack’s Lunch
(Just up Broadway from Jerry’s place.)
Vittles Tuomi made a jerry-built coffin
Fashioned from the now-vacant cat bad,
And John Itzo snagged some fake flowers and a crepe-paper bird
From the brim of his wife’s old hat
(They being perched on a can of tuna soldered to the box
With the intent of nourishing him on his trip to the afterlife,
Jes’ like the pharaohs, according to Vittles.)
As the services progressed, some of the boys floated the notion
That the guest of honor should (under the cover of darkness, natch)
Be interred at St. Patricks, but Father Maguire,
Attending the do as the feline’s ex officio spiritual advisor,
Gently reminded the prospective pallbearers
That His Grace the Bishop had denied burial in consecrated ground
For lesser offenses, and it was finally decided that burial
(It was assumed that he’d been responsible
For an unknown number of progeny, and it was also rumored
That he had a brother or twelve up in Watervliet)
Would be private and at the convenience of the family.