Happy Hour

I decide against bringing in the bone hook hiding in the glove box
I stole before quitting the hospital. 
In this bar I feel safer with a weapon,
Something threatening and sharp.
To be armed with it grants me the urge to use it.
Ian is here. Happy Hour Friday.
I haven’t seen him since last Saturday when he said, 
I might have to make myself throw up. 
Too sick to work, leaving Dominic to fill in.
Poor Dom. His legs must have been on fire that night
Having to work a double shift.
Ian looks sleepy, suffering still from insomnia.
I came by to see if you’re alright.
Why wouldn’t I be? He asks.
I leave it at that. 
He’s always looking to bruise bellies,
To cut faces, to piss in someone’s Cheerios.
What do you want to drink? He asks.
A Corona with a shot of whiskey. 
He continues to joke around with Haley, Dom’s roommate 
And that hippie, Eric whose throat I want to shove a stray cat down.
Ian asks again what I want to drink.
His brain is an empty fishbowl.
Corona.
Fuck you!
Fuck you!
Fuck you! He keeps chanting.
Instead of the beer I want
He serves me two cans of something I didn’t ask for.
It’s Asshole Friday. 
My anger grows high and hot.
I think of that bone hook in my car,
Hooked over Ian’s lip, a gate of teeth, into the roof of his mouth.
I think of the strength it will take to pull me off him,
To pry the weapon out of my hand.

The Look I Took

She sits across from me
in the diner booth,
this friend I see from time to time
when I’m sure I won’t embarrass myself too much
and tell her how much I want her.

One of her front teeth 
is just a little crooked.
Just like all of her face:
a tad off, distorted –
one eye a little larger,
a bump on her nose
and even her smile is uneven.
It works.
She’s so beautiful.

I keep my thoughts to myself now
because there’s no point in telling
and I want her to feel safe
while sitting across from me.
I want her to be happy and open
and willing to tell me everything
even if it means
not being happy and open myself.
She deserves it.
She’s every bit as beautiful inside.
She deserves anything she wants.

She excuses herself 
to use the restroom
and when she gets up
she bows to me
the way a person does
when they push out their chair
getting up from a table
and I can see down her shirt,
getting a peek at her cleavage.
Her wonderful little breasts,
so close to me,
close enough to touch
but of course I don’t –
I shouldn’t even be looking
but I do for a moment.

While she’s gone
I think about why I didn’t avert my eyes
when normally I would have –
I would have if it was anyone else.
She’ll go home to her husband
and I’ll go home
and think about her cleavage,
her bra,
her shoulderblade
and the flesh of her neck
that was so close
I could have kissed it.

The look I took,
I took it by mistake,
without permission
but I will cherish it.
It’s mine.

Jump Over Cracks

Avoid black cats. 
Don’t walk under ladders.

Fasten your seatbelt.
Use a condom.
Get vaccinated.
Take your vitamins.

Wait for the green light.
Stop at the red light.
Strap the baby in.
Strap the dog in.

Get health insurance.
Eat organic food.
Wear a mask.
Don’t go out at night.

Don’t go out.
Don’t talk to strangers.
Don’t talk to anyone.
Don’t talk to yourself.

Pay your rent.
Open your mail.
Go to housing court.
Pack your bags.

Don’t be alone.
Get married.
Be quiet.
Pack your bags.

Register to vote.
Vote for the Democrat.
Vote for the lesser evil.
Don’t vote for anyone.
Pack your bags.

And never, ever step on the crack.
You will break your mother’s back.

Salute to the One-Ballers

Keitel, Dafoe, Clift,
Cage, Walken, Pacino,
and, definitely, Brando…

They shirked the 
limits of anatomy
and—don’t you know?— 
underwent an orchiectomy.
Henceforth, they lope-lean
into The Way, breathing 
from a space deeper 
than conscious craft. 
Impossible with a full sack.  

Beware imitators.
They but seem to lean:
Cooper—imitator 
DiCaprio—pretender  
Pattinson—who dat?
Pitt—nope  

Imagine Tom Cruise (archetypal 
two-baller) with Walken’s line:
“I hid this uncomfortable hunk 
of metal up my ass two years.”

It becomes sound against music, 
an F-14 landing On the Waterfront. 
Deer Hunter ending on Love Island.
“Bazinga!” splooging onto “Attica!” 

Hawke, Hardy, Depp,   
Cage, Clift, Dean,
and, yup, McQueen

Think on their sacrifice 
next time you jam your hand 
in pocket, dreaming 
of Griffith Observatory 
under the luscious LA light.

3am 

I never thought I’d miss the smell

The smell of spongy roof shingles stained with lichens and the exhaust of ambulances cutting through the block to drop bodies in hope their ascension can be delayed

The smell of stale beer and musty basement hastily mopped with last weeks water bucket

Water stained by the soil from outside and tears from within

The smell of tobacco smoke lingering in the air

Weaved in the thread of my clothes

Embedded in my fingertips

Particles stuck in my throat and sinuses

Copper rising from my lungs 

The smell of sweaty walls

Sweaty halls

Sweaty balls

Left over miasma of physical union in an unlocked bedroom

Or moldy bathroom

The smell of a stranger’s alleyway vomit in the treads of my boots

Pizza or ziti?

Or someone’s deodorant smeared on my shirt and the failure of its effectiveness

The smell of jungle juice and regret coming from the stains on my jeans

Reminding me that open 9oz cups mixed with crowds and music and limited square footage are about stable as a pile of rocks on the San Andreas fault

The smell of cucumber melon or sweet pea body lotion which has been transferred to my skin by some siren who will vanish from my night as quickly as she materialized into it 

The smell of a pissed on dumpster

It’s rotting contents

Or the burnt spoon next to it

The smell of crushed pills that never made it into a mucosal membrane or the ashes they were pulverized next to

The smell of morning dew creeping onto the asphalt reminding me morning can bring many things ranging from a cleansing rebirth to shame

The smell reminding me like those nights,  the party is mostly over

The only ones left crusty eyed and awake are people looking for a piece

Whether it be piece of ass

Piece of the pie

Or peace of mind 

The smell of those that have burnt out and worn their souls so thin they will vaporize into nothingness and into a seemingly eternal sleep upon collapse

Metaphorically or literally

The smell of the real soldiers that march on through the mess of the past and eventually will see the daylight

Even if it’s brought by the end of a tunnel

The smell. The smell that strangely signals a world of opportunity in front of you

Triggering vitality

Energy

Reminding you possibilities exist and that the carrot dangling in front of you was poorly constructed and you can reach out and bite that fucker if you try hard enough

I never thought I’d miss the smell

The smell of New Brunswick 3am

The smell of youth

My Sign 

Now that I am old and worthless, 
teetering along the sidewalk, 
getting in everyone’s way, 
so rickety and disgusting, 
not even the dogs want to piss on me, 
I have attached a sign to the back of my shirt: 
If found down, 
please kick me to the curb, 
and call a garbage truck. 
Please do not attempt mouth-to-mouth, 
unless it really gets you off, 
because I might like it too much. 

214

she was sitting at the bar alone, save for an empty glass
what are you having i asked, sliding into a seat a few down from hers
i caught myself staring at the black ink that spilled down her collarbone
cosmopolitan she said without looking over at me
crossing her ankles, she let one stiletto slide to the floor
my eyes were drawn to her slender toes, the neon lights glinting off jet black polish

i flagged down the bartender and ordered a drink for each of us
when they arrived, she reached over and proffered hers for a clink
i noticed the pale circle on her third finger, a faint indent where a shackle used to be

i felt emboldened by the vodka so i asked you here alone
only then did she turn and look straight at me
not anymore
it took me aback – her directness – and i forgot my words
she smirked (a knowing smile) and turned back to her drink

she plucked the lime from the rim of her glass and motioned it toward me
i love the tartness she said, and delicately wrapped her lips around the rind
her teeth tearing the flesh

we sipped in silence for several more minutes
then she asked wanna get out of here
where to i glanced despondently out the rain-streaked windows 

she stood up, and, downing the rest of her cosmo, slipped her foot back in along the insole
she rocked her ankle back and forth, gripping the edge of the bar for balance
i stared, transfixed, until her smooth, soft heel sunk home

my room she said as she turned and clicked away
i scrambled to leave a few bills for the tab before following after her

214 she called over her shoulder, leading me toward the elevators

i met her in the bay and attempted to join her in the lift
but she placed a firm palm against my chest
you take the stairs she said as her fingers flexed, surprising me with their strength
i backed up a step, the doors closed between us, and i booked it for the stairwell

on my way up i loosened my tie and untucked my shirt
shook myself out of my blazer
tossing it over one shoulder, i found her door, and knocking, found it was open for me

i stepped through the threshold and took in the suite
there was the softest sound, as of silk falling to the floor

i had long enough to see her naked before me, long enough to grin like the fool i was
but not long enough 
to register her own exultant grin 

not long enough to turn around
or escape

room 214

It’s All Academic

Become a teacher.
Get a mortgage on a house in the suburbs.
Buy a car with good gas mileage.
Get involved in the local poetry readings.
Start a zine and publish only those who publish you.
Use superlatives
like ‘excellent’ or ‘brilliant’ when describing the lousy work of your friends.
(Flattery is your friend too).
Read William Carlos Williams.
Become obsessed with his Red Wheelbarrow theory.
Cultivate a garden in your backyard.
Plant it with lima beans, bell peppers, radishes.
Watch everything die.
Give up on it.
Read more William Carlos Williams.
Be sober.
Get tenure.
Never miss a meal.
Ignore your betters.
Go bald.
Get back to nature.
Begin by mowing your own lawn.
Write some poesy about it (in the Charles Simic style – trade
Williams
in for him).
Become obsessed with chinch bugs and molecrickets
and the growth of grass and various types of weed killers.
Crash into a stump with your lawnmower.
Do a flip over the handlebars.
Get whiplash.
Wear a neckbrace for some months.
A fat and cumbersome one.
One that presses down into your collarbones and pushes up
into your jowls so your jowls
drape themselves over the edges of it
giving you the appearance of a Basset Hound with its flabby
mug sitting on a linoleum floor.
Believe that your students are noting your wit
when they’re really drawing cartoons of you.
Sell your lawn equipment.
Hire cheap Guatemalan labor and pay off your house
and pay off your car
and be even more sober
and buy a Hog
and leathers and a plasma TV.
And come home early from a faculty meeting one day
and witness
the meter reader
or the software salesman
or the bug exterminator
working away
on your wife.
You start shouting
and they start shouting and you ball
up your fists and the veins stand up in your forehead
and your whole bald head turns red and then
a deep shade of monkey-vomit purple comes down over your face
and he climbs off her
apologizes snatches up his clothes and balls
them up and placing them carefully over his nether regions
slinks half-nude along the wall and out the front door
and you go into your study
and you bawl God out
and reach for a glass of water.
Then reach for Simic.
When he fails
reach for Galway
Kinnell and Kinnell failing
lick your wounds
and check your pride
and forgive your wife
Because you can’t really blame her.
You turned her into your mother the day you got married
and besides, a poet needs a little pain in his life.
It gives him something to write about.
But don’t write about that.
Keep writing your surrealism, or whatever you call it.
Follow the herd.

Time To Waste

I see you wanted to waste a little time.
So did I.

You, the reader, must have too much of it
Me, the writer, doubly so.

Think of all the other things
you could be doing now.

Think of all the other things
I could have done instead.

It seems we both make bad choices.
Isn’t it good to know
We have this much in common?

Let’s make another bad choice,
This time together.

You can read this poem to the end.
And me? I’ll write it.

Middleman

Christ knows why
But after hearing 
You’re back with him
I’m remembering 
How you told me
He always tried
To fuck you 
In the arse
And how sometimes,
Unwilling 
You let him

And I ain’t saying
It’s nice to do so
But as I think of him
Hammering away,

I can’t tell if it’s
You 
Or me
Who’s in
More pain.