In Flight

Floating 30,000 feet 
thinking about her.
No contact again—
good mornings,
I love yous,
sweet dreams,
what are you up to’s,
hellos—
nothing.
So many days
we were the first and last thoughts
of one another.
I sit in aisle seat 26D
sipping a $9 Vodka and Sprite
focusing on her,
fighting the desire to look at pics,
when a curly haired window seat boy
of about four
opens the window shade
points and says,
still in the sky!           
He is right,
even after touching down,
some of us
will still be stuck there.

long thin skirt

Chet was a sawyer
on our wildland firefighter hotshot crew
a local from Camp Verde
who at first didnt like me
because I had long hair
a college degree

his hair was short
tho he had no desire for the military
but did plan on
working for Border Patrol

I won him over
by always getting up early
in fire camps
to help out
working hard
but mostly by
singing and playing guitar
when we were back
at our barracks

his girlfriend went to NAU
in Flagstaff
had let her hair grow into dreads
wore long thin skirts
sometimes drove down
to our district
on the national forest

one night
Chet + some other guys
were going to play poker
he came over to my barracks
asked if I/d
keep her company
play her some songs
so she + I sat out on a picnic table
under the ponderosas
barefoot
while they gambled inside
I did sing and play some songs
but mostly we talked about books
college
music
while the guys got drunk
and yelled and laughed

I finally said goodnight
grabbed my sleeping bag
went out in the forest
for the quiet
she went inside

fire season picked up
we went to California for a month
came back got laid off

I drove up to Flagstaff
before getting on I-40
to head back to Chicago
driving down Aspen Street
saw her walking w/some girlfriends
almost stopped
to walk over + say hello

quit firefighting
the next summer
but moved to Flagstaff
never saw her
never thought to look for her
until decades later
now

Lots’s Lot

Father and I debated who begat the gatling gun. 
I said it could be anyone. 
Father insisted: Bob Gatling, 
or some other son of a Gatling. 
When I failed to lick his boot, 
Dad got under the collar hot. 
Began to holler, me no daughter of his. 
Reached for the 16-gauge blunderbuss. 
Doesn’t take a lot get Dad to pop off, 
and he had not an hour before 
chugged a pint of Popov, 
the vodka that set America free. 
But I trumped his rump. 
Yanked outta my boot the cutest little derringer, 
and gave it to Dad, 
one .45 slug straight to the heart. 
Dad tumbled over, 
dead as the E. R. A., 
and I hit the highway. 
It was either Mexico or a baseball bat. 
I was not about to have begot 
whatever devil Dad had, 
three months ago,
in the dead of night, 
in my womb sowed. 
Out of breath, bathed in sweat, 
stopped at a mom-and-pop for a can of pop. 
The tube behind the register 
bragged they had already overhead 
choppers with searchlights. 
Wolfed the pop; 
dropped empty in recycling. 
Stepped outside, and into – 
automatic-weapon-fire erupting – 
history – flatly, 
in the Bible, denied. 
I lay still in the gutter, 
eyes aimed at the sky.

Flag Stop

On the way to the crusades 
I met a boy on a green Vespa. 
I’m doomed to be no one other than myself. 
“It’s Portofino,” he said
and there’s something about the color
that resembles the Christ of the Abyss. 
The last thing Mother wanted before she died 
was a chocolate milkshake. 
It shouldn’t come as a surprise. 
People like milkshakes 

and me… 
I’m as doting as a saint.
I’m in my holy years crusading West Beach.  
I wear a robe of laudanum, 
say goodbye to small mean men. 
The sky is gynecological, 
low and sheer 
and strapped 
with unforgiving clouds. 
Am I leaking 

no, I’m crowned. 
Back slang, bourbon neat 
at the Hale St. Tavern;  
all the yoyos with money
and the prosiness of life,
“You look awful,” they say.  
Beverly Farms with its commuter rail to heaven: 
A flag stop only. I scrounge and serve 
my round blonde head. 
My papers suspect.

Hooch Love

Gina liked her bourbon the same way I did:
a brimful waterglass, with a couple of ice cubes hanging on for dear life.
we’d already emptied a bottle of Jim Beam. she brought the blow
out; we snorted a few lines, cracked another bottle.
“are you gonna come by the club tomorrow?” she asked. “work’s more
fun when you’re there.”
“we’ll see,” I said. “depends on if I can finally get the Muse to cooperate. the bitch’s
been avoiding me for a while now.”
“perhaps, I can be your new Muse,” she smirked and her hand went straight for my crotch.
she had no subtlety, no finesse; those were reserved for work.
she swigged down her drink, then shoved her
tongue down my throat. she clenched her fist around my prick, forcing my
blood to migrate south despite the alcohol in my body offering some resistance.
without wasting a second, she climbed on my lap, still sucking on my tongue.
I was hers to do as she pleased and she fucking knew it—she had no qualms about
taking advantage of it.
my hands went straight on her firm buttocks, burrowing under her mini skirt.
she sat deeper onto my crotch, grinding with a purpose, and I sucked on
her tongue. clothes started flying, landing on the dust- and coke-covered floor.
with her, whiskey dick was never a problem; she knew how to get me
all hard and ready.

She Said

She said I was a no good son of a bitch.
I said she was a sorry ass worthless cunt.
She took a swing at me with a bar ashtray.
She missed, fell the fuck down, I laughed,
Which pissed the wench off all the more.
I dumped a glass of beer on her while she
Lay on the floor still screamin’ in her fury.
The bar maid came around and got her up
And helped her stagger outside to her car
Where she either passed out or mercifully
Slipped into a deep liquor induced sleep.
Maybe, I am a no good son of a bitch but
She couldn’t be an authority on the matter.
Didn’t know her, hadn’t ever spoke to her,
First time I ever seen her.  I must have that
‘No good son of a bitch’ tattooed across my 
Forehead.

glowing green

I still wander looking for EXIT signs
down the long hallway
of old Hollywood hotel
wood shiny and rotting from use
smelling of mint roach disinfectant 

I want to haunt and live
the best two hours of my movie this year
as I say at the dawn of every 
still here

I remember the fire I felt
on the long journey here
young and determined and excited 

I remember the fires that started out there
and came home with me
raging in my mind over my shoulder as I 
envisioned leaving 
the great burning city behind 
but I always turned back
to the apocalyptic tune 
wielding my glowing soul grenade launcher
not quite done yet

my fire is now more dream than starlight 
New Kid Arrived; I tell you
you may hear me in the late choked night 
you might dread me on the walls
you will find parts of me in the corners 
overlooked
you will love here, you will lose here, you
will dream even more here, you might die
here, you might need to escape here or
you might just continue and fade out here

for my part
I still envision the fire

Aging Player / Sore Loser

Out of reach, stars spell out
Not a chance as reality bites

your neck like you bit others
Not too much of a mystery

We always stood eye to eye
But you’d never truly open yours

You’d never miss a cue to scratch
with such clueless precision

And as the moon gets bigger
and brighter you shrink

Sunrise says you look beat;
Did you lose another bet?

I have to squint now
to ignite a flighty flicker of you

You seem ok downgrading
to a piss-poor stitch in time

I can hardly believe it myself
as the soul train passes you by

The Finish Line

It is raining something good,
the streets are soaked with puddles
that grow deeper, larger and darker 
with each clap of thunder.
Lightning flashes
as quickly as the beginning of the storm itself.
Tourists don’t know what to do
except run into tourist shops
to buy overpriced ponchos—
another keepsake from their trip.
Wow! You would not believe 
how hard it rains there!
Look at the ponchos we got,
it says Bourbon Street on it! 

At The Boondock Saint
they are currently playing rockabilly
which, in a twisted way,
seems to rage against the weather,
with its upbeat rhythms of cars 
racing around tracks
or dark roads at night for pink slips,
sounds of squealing rubber around curves. 
I’m just not in the mood
for hot rod songs tonight.
I’m better suited to slow floating 
or fast rising water songs.
Sea shanties and the like.
Songs of the open sea, 
crashing boat beats and notes that float.
The tunes that can make one feel
relaxation or menace,
depending on one’s situation.
So, I order another drink and a shot
and I begin to sing,
drowning myself in liquor—
sheltered from the storm for now,
where I’ll just wait this out
until I get calm waves
or a checkered flag. 

late night litmus test at the grab-a-granny inn

I was wretchedly drunk
so it was difficult
for me to gauge
the woman’s beauty.

the fact she claimed
she found me attractive
should have put her
desirability into doubt.

there were my
wolverine sideburns to consider,
muttonchops descending
my jawline so staggering,
so impressive,
I could have led a
Civil War regiment
by follicle strength alone.

but it’s been well-established
in this society
women don’t react well
to facial hair that
fell out of fashion
two centuries ago.

also, she made her move
after I karaoked
“I Love the Dead”
Alice Cooper’s sinister
ode to the joys
of necrophilia
which might have led her
to believe
I was free and nondiscerning
with my charms.

sitting in the shadows
in the back corner
of the lounge
with our arms draped
around each other
as some jackass on stage
flubbed his way
through “Ice, Ice Baby”
she admitted
I wasn’t her primary choice.

but the first guy
lost out when she
discovered his utter
lack of teeth.
she put her tongue in his mouth
and felt that solitary tooth
jutting crookedly like
a tombstone knocked askew.

she picked up a shot
of Cuervo gold,
raised the glass, said
“it only takes three
or four of these babies
to get me naked,”
and I smacked that
shot glass right out
of her fucking hand.

there was no telling
how many she had
before I sat down
beside her.