the thing before the thing before the thing

because it’s nice to be young
because it’s nice to be in your
early to mid twenties
and it’s nice to do the thing
after you’ve done the thing

the thing that comes after you’ve
done the
thing is always
the same
but the thing that leads to the thing is
often different

this night it was white powder
they shared it neatly
between each other
and then climbed into bed

“Christ,” he said. “I still can’t believe you
sucked dick for this shit. And
a carload of it. What was it, like
four, five guys?”

“Oh, shut your hole, you pauper-ass.
If you had a job like a decent motherfucker
I wouldn’t have to do that shit, you know?”

“Shit, baby, don’t make this
trip worse than it is.”

“You started it.”

“Whatever, let’s just get to the next thing
already.”

“I haven’t even bathed. You know,
after taking on that carload…”

But it was too late to think.
the first thing kicked in
hard
and it lead to the other
and a brain wasn’t needed for any of them

and the cold wind blew
through the broken
window
and dried their sweat

Stains

he walked into the room
unaware of the cum stains on the floor
drinks were poured and drained
the dog was let out and fed
a few records spun
made dinner and ate
washed dishes
tried to read and write
but the drink overruled
went to bed
got up the next morning
poured coffee and went to work
he worked like a slave
the heat was brutal
excuses were made to walk inside
just to feel the air conditioning
felt as if he was dying a little each day
which he was
returned home
no kisses to greet him
unknowingly
the stains were gone

drinks were poured and drained…

the thinness of walls, 3

a crowd gathers outside room 13,
a battle rages inside –
i step from my room close by
as a woman screams –

scared faces look at me,
various people from various worlds –
‘do something,’ they say, without using words –
the proprietor runs up,
cops will be here soon,
but soon is not soon enough –

a woman screams again –
i kick in the door of room 13 –

a man holds a woman by the throat,
lets her go,
his hands clench into tight fists –
my hands clench too –

the first blow put him down –
blow after blow after blow,
knuckles bloodied,
bones broken –
knockout decision –

the woman looks at me,
grabs her clothes, steals his keys,
takes his car, and disappears clean –
i snatch up a rolled of bills,
a fat bag of dope,
and turn for the door –

the crowd thins, back to their hiding –
the proprietor says,
the cops will be here soon
but not soon enough –

i  make the interstate,
fade & flow into a shimmering night –
pull into a rest stop thirty miles east –
quartzsite, arizona

a beaten women frozen behind the wheel of a stolen
car looks at me,
waves meekly,
eyes glassy & gone
i give her half the cash recently acquired from an
unconscious man –

sometim​es life is worth everything,
sometimes only half –

Ballad of The Gas Station Checkout Girl

Have you ever seen
the afterglow
of one who decided
not to go–
decided… in the nick of time
that the time…wasn’t quite right
I noticed her
from far back in the line
I always look at wrists
When it was my turn
to buy beer and chips,
our eyes screamed together
and our hands touched
as she gave me change–
money…
always gets in the way

The Mugger

I wander the late-night streets,
clutching a head in a sack
to my chest.

A guy pulls a gun on me,
snarls, “That’s mine.
Hand it over.”

By his dark eyes,
pale cheeks,
crooked mouth,
I can tell he’s lying.

Gothic Ghost Story

A 52-year-old librarian and her
15-year-old metalhead boyfriend
who ignites an electrifying passion
within her and who, unbeknownst to
her, is actually her half-brother
are forced by extraordinary
circumstances to kill or be killed
They panhandle, hitch rides, and
crash with total strangers
Generally, in such stories, the person
grows and becomes a good person
but this is no gothic ghost story
When the first reports surface of
the discovery of four skeletons
wrapped in burlap he walks out
of a mental hospital and into
the path of an oncoming train
Her demise in the electric chair is
prefigured by her abusive seduction
of prostitutes who advertised on Craigslist

Coke Guilt

The worst people to party
and do drugs with are the
one’s who are consumed
with guilt. I used to know
a guy like this, every time
he did coke he felt guilty,
had coke guilt, and that’s
ok if you keep that shit to
yourself, but he wouldn’t.
he wanted to talk about his
feelings and his addiction
issues; he’d talk about rehab,
how he went, and how it helped,
momentarily of course. he talked
about going to meetings, and twice
he brought out some sort of
addiction treatment questionnaire,
once asking me to answer the
questions as he read them out
loud, and another time asking
one of my friends. I answered a few
before telling him, I wouldn’t answer
anymore. what a fucking buzz kill!
that’s what he was. I heard he’s sober
now, completely clean, no drugs, no
alcohol. apparently, he’s into fitness
and healthy diets, shit like that; and
anybody who still parties and does
drugs, even if occasionally, should be
grateful for this—I know I am.

the thinness of walls, 2

we sit around a cheap motel table
she & i
cut lines w/ a credit card
borrowed from an unsuspecting saint –

she wears denim shorts, a thin blue
blouse –
smile hangs frozen in place
fingers tremble
just a little –

we trade hits,
trade lies,
trade dreams too naive to repeat,
fall into a rented bed as trucks
ramble down a broken road
outside the motel room door –

i ask her to take off her clothes,
take off her mask,
take off her innocence –
her smile tells me our first embrace
would open up a shiny new world,
but i know, as i enter her in a
traditional way, hell would be
the next world i would know –

Difficult to Love

I am not the kind of girl
Who will lie about my feelings
To spare yours.
It’s a lesson my parent tried to teach me,
But I picked up on so few of those.

My thoughts, my feelings, my emotions
Are kind of like projectile vomit;
That is to say,
They are out of my mouth before I can close my lips.
My thoughts, my feelings, my emotions
Are also kind of like swords;
That is to say,
I don’t always think before I speak.

If I did, I might have learned
To edit my words
To spare your feelings.
And if I’d learned that,
My marriage might have survived.
Or, at least,
Maybe my dad wouldn’t tell me
That I’m the kind of girl
That’s difficult to love.

real men

She told me that women like
men with grizzled,
bestial
faces, men with scars
men with eyepatches
men with very unkempt beards
Mouths that snarl
when it’s time to smile
Eyes that are like eggs buried in
a nest of wrinkles
Noses that are never straight
And the jaw,
oh the jaw has to be big
square
like a drawer
A man’s face must have a chin
that can take sledgehammers

that’s why the luckiest woman
in the world
was Belle
from The Beauty and The Beast.
That was a real man, The Beast.
although the story is a tragic one
because in the
end he turns
into a charming prince
with smooth face and polished
features.

“What a fuckboy,” she said. “If only
he stayed a beast…”

Meanwhile I think about
myself
the most grizzly feature about
my face is the mad
eyestrain I developed
because of my job, after staring
at monitors in a dark room for
all those years and then coming home
to stare at another monitor.
it is now impossible for me to get
outside and keep my eyes
open like a normal person. I die if I
don’t strain them as hard as I
can. Sunglasses don’t even help.
and there’s also the dark
circles below my eyes
they’re not even purple as I’ve seen
in other people

“They have the texture of the
skin around the asshole,” she said,
laughing.

She was right.

She was also right when she pointed
out that if you can’t grow
a beard by the time you’re
twenty you’ll never grow a proper
beard.

“Shit,” I said. “Guess I’ll never
be a beast.”

“It’s never too late to get your
face fucked up
though,” she said. “You
just need
to hang around
the right people.”

“Such as your dad?” I said.

“Oh, fuck you,” she said,
dragging the blanket
over her breasts.