Erin Go Bragh

I said, “Erin go bragh.”
That’s ‘bragh’ not ‘bra’.
Tell that drunken woman
To quit waving her bra
And flashing her titties.
Every year the same thing,
St Patrick’s Day in an Irish
Bar, ‘pub’ in the old country.
Buncha damn drunks here.
And everybody’s Irish today.
By now, I’m used to the
Polish and the black Irish.
But, it’s the goth-type Irish
That I’ve overlooked before.
What’s the matter with you?
No, we don’t pull the wings
Off of fairies and we never
Would roast our leprechauns.
Oy vey, Aaron. Please, man.
Not still another round?
How can a man raised on
Kosher wine drink so much
Irish whiskey and still stand?
Aha! There she is, me dream,
My red headed darlin’ with
The twinkle in her eye and
A smile to melt your heart.
Tonight, I would make my
Move, but, I’m so loaded
That I can’t talk, just drool.
And, I’ve a noticeable bit
Of half-dried vomit crusting
On the front of my shirt.
Better wait for another time.
But then, being Irish, herself,
Maybe she’s into party animals.

Moments After

She lit a cigarette and
inhaled, then blowing out
silver shapes at the ceiling
she looked across at me,
as we lay side by side
after just making love.

‘I hope you’re ready
to go again by the time
I’ve finished this’ she said.

‘So do I’ I said.

I couldn’t remember her
name and I watched her
smoke the cigarette and
then mash it out into the
overflowing ashtray.

She blew one final stream
of silver from between
her lips as I felt her hands
exploring between my legs
and my stoned blood
began rampaging through
my body once again.

Bleared ’68

Things aren’t so good at home. 
So, when Dad conks out, 
after the doorslamming, wallpunching, 
dogkicking, hysterical cursing ceases, 
I steal the keys and cross the river to D.C.; 
to drink legally in topless bars, 
ordering zombies,
ogling bored sluts tease. 
So far this year they (not the dancers) 
shoot King, Bobbie, thousands of soldier boys; 
LBJ throws in the towel; war rages distantly, 
televized in your face.
My draft card, despite turned eighteen 
last October, in lieu of 1-A, reads: 1-SH; 
standing NOT for: One Shit Head.
My keenest memory 
from that blear called ’68: 
find myself stopped at a light; 
wee hour, road empty. 
Crack the door; 
tilt chin over asphalt;
copiously bepuke the 
double-yellow. Contemplate, under 
a foot from my nose, rejected booze. 
Light strobes green. Wrestle door 
shut; right self in seat; hands 
discover wheel.
Cruise the ununderstandable night, a 
drunk and very lucky warm bucket of spit. 
Jumpcut to carport; exit vehicle; 
stagger inside split-level 
upstairs to bed, 
Dad’s vodka snores strangling the dark; 
Mom, beside the breadwinner, 
tortured, drowsing. 
Amazingly – credits rolling – 
hero pinned as me – 
spinning in my room off to sleep – 
fail to focus enough to masturbate, 
for once in a moon super and blue.  

When You Don’t Know The Why 
or The Way of It

Listen
how the wind tail-ends
across the rivets 
of the George Washington 
how there is so much more of everything 
underneath all of this

a child crosses her heart and hopes to try
and remember these things
that no one else can see

and pain will replace it
we know this
but there is a sweet spot 
between then and now
hovering like god’s own 
across the water 

we are not so great, you and I
but we are sturdy
at times
do the right thing 
mostly
by accident 
time and place 
rhythm and swarm 

in spring 
the earth pulses
with it
and winter will replace it
we know this
but for now there’s a wild blooming
things are born
and torn 

the prayers you say in the morning 
are always easier than the ones 
you say at night 

Small Entertainments 

Most of my boxers
have a gaping hole
underneath where
my balls laid comfortably
cupped—
now they spill through them
all hairy when I wear them
because I have no lovers
so why bother to shave.
I don’t know how and why
my boxers have those holes there
but there they are
and every morning
I wear them 
and I see a testicle
spilling through 
and although this is
such a clear attestation
of my financial struggles,
it puts a smile on my face 
every morning.

Good Times at Ralph’s Place

Lesser pseudo sub-mutant quasi-low life underling
Rated six levels below sun dried dog shit parasites,
But even though that was the general consensus,
The group’s collective opinion, still they didn’t mind
A semi-pro chicken neck queen doin’ the whole team.
Dudes just hangin’ out on a dull weeknight boozin’
With this, the only woman there, late of a dive bar,
Now down on her knobby knees suckin’ to please.
True colors were shown when the time finally came
For pay off and no guy there would give her a screw.
They all laughed. She ran out angry, vowing revenge.
Yeah, always good times at Ralph’s place.  Great fun.
But, cryin’ time, later, with all the slashed car tires.

No Promises

I can make you no promises that I can keep.
In a moment of need I’ll say anything.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. That’s easiest to say.
Just put off any thought that might interfere
with the matter at hand.

With luck one of us will forget what was said,
or what was asked, most likely me,
but you could forget as well.

That depends on luck, or what we were drinking.
Neither is a sound reason for a bet.

I should keep all my promises, all of them,
in a box in the garage, hidden in plain sight 

along with the old car tires, the broken lawnmower, 
and the hundred pound bag or road salt
kept for rare days when it snows.

That’s the only way I can keep a promise,
but it would involve too much writing 
and rearranging the existing mess in the garage.

It would be better for both of us if I made no promises,
and you never tried to force me into being a liar.

This is a good night for what we are now.
Don’t say anything about tomorrow or the day after.

Such words would jinx the moment,
and we only have so many moments.
Maybe we need a box to save them in as well.

Climax 

We meet in a slow moist belligerency
of heated bodies, flesh clenching flesh,
yet seeking more,
one pounding anxiously against the other                                           
until an ancient rhythm’s discovered
and the impetuous dance quickens
as we feverishly taste sweat and salt,
and smell fading flowers.

Then the urgency overtakes us.
We are tickled and defeated
into incredibly delicious convulsions
that blind and obliterate everything.
With one final languid subsiding thrust
we are bleached of desire, ambition
         and self
till at last we dissolve and settle
into the nothingness of night                                                            
and the great design of things.

a punch to the dick

these are the nights that apathy tastes
like the first time your grandmother 
gave you a sip of gin

the poison that would run through 
your veins the rest of your life

yet watching the woman of your dreams 
walk away haunts every dream

each step a punch to the dick

trying to pen the perfect poem at three 
in the morning while needing to take 
a shit in some sleazy motel in the 
middle of nowhere

the poet never gets the girl

only gets to listen to the stories of the 
popular fucks and turn them into the 
assholes they deserve to be

look out your window and watch a cat 
chase a bird as a butterfly chokes on 
a hazy summer nightmare

there once was promise in those skies

now, you only think about how soon 
does death greet you in the middle 
of the night

another glass of gin

you’ve been preparing for this
all your life

So we are

Clouds gray the morning light.
Black tires slosh one after another
through the same puddle.

The asphalt glistens, a touch of diamond,
as you stand under an umbrella,
a broken half-circle.

The book tucked under your arm
is already wet.
Drops race down your jacket.

The bus is late. A fact of life.
Strangers stare from car windows
at a fool who does not drive.

Time passes. You watch the tires.
Listen to brakes and sudden skids.
You practice avoidance,

hope the spray misses.
You are lucky. Sometimes.
You will get there, where you’re headed,

with wet socks and stuck pages,
alive, if not on time.
You will not worry long about it.

These are the small things
we live and observe.
They’re rarely fatal.

Just part of the bargain
of living one moment
after another.

All these drops, pearls really,
strung together for us,
making a life some how,

and though we kick and scream
at times
and try hard as we can,

it remains much the same,
a difference of degree only,
between a mild spray and a big splash.