The Thirty-Eighth Parallel

She told me about her friend
who lied about his age (thirty-eight).
But the age misgiving wasn’t her hangup,
it was the fact that he couldn’t kiss.
She tried three times wondering,
“What was he doing all his life?”

She told me this over a cup of coffee
And I listened intently. 
I asked if he’s just shy, she shot that down:
“I stated earlier, he showed me everything,”
as she gave two thumbs up and a wink.

I replied, “But was his conversation any good?”
She shot that down as well: “I didn’t 
keep him around for the conversation.”

I mentioned my friend from Missouri,
who also told me she was thirty-eight.
Plus, she didn’t tell me about the kids
and husband till many months later.

I laughed about it even mentioning how
I think she is my long-lost twin sister.
We even bought the same t-shirts.
Also, she’s tall and crazy.

We spent several more minutes 
chatting about our travels, family, and
 spouses as she announces: 
“I’ve been faithful.” 

She goes on to state how men 
can’t be faithful. I countered.
But she smirked and looked away. 

We sat for a few minutes silent while
she waited for me to flinch, keeping her
eyes above the brim fixated on my thoughts.
Our coffees ran low matching the exchange. 
It was time to meander back. 

I went inside to drop off the dishes. 
She stepped across the street to take pics.
I watched the wind gliding over her entirety, 
as her hair tussled behind and danced with
the looseness of her coat.

The light shaded, highlighted, traced the folds 
of her clothes and intent expression. 
Her skin was quiet, but glowing gamma rays. 

I wanted to tell her that the pics she sent me
didn’t remotely do her justice, and I wanted to see
How I rated compared to her three times
‘You’re Out’ dumped (not thirty-eight) boyfriend.

Maybe I’ll walk over and place a hand 
on her waist, or is it both hands – or should I 
place one hand on her shoulder? Or better yet,
I’ll just ask if it’s ok. I heard that works.
She noticed me watching, and signals me 
to cross. 

It’s go-time.

I stepped over the separating double yellow bands 
onto the sidewalk where she held ground.

She asked what’s the name of this street. 
I replied, “It might be the 38^th parallel.”

I looked at her and smiled. Before I could
Ask, launch forth, or lean in she reminded me:
“Hey don’t forget to take some pictures.
That was what you told her you were doing today.
Here’s one.” 

She pointed to the sign.
Under, Stop, someone wrote:
Collaborate and Listen.

a tuesday night in the sticks

a glitter bomb 
to lighten the 
mood

a tub filled with 
blood, alcohol 
and stained 
panties

must be a tuesday 
night in the sticks

all the poets 
drinking the cheap 
grocery store booze 
and one sophisticated 
motherfucker in the 
corner with a bottle 
of scotch

they like to place 
bets on horse races 
and japanese baseball 
games

someone lets a fart go
and clears the room

whispers abound on 
how he will need to 
change quickly

in more ways than one

time is a flat, drum circle

I’ve reached an age
where I can look back on my life
and remember a time
when the Oliver Stone directed
Jim Morrison biopic
The Doors was not considered a comedy.

I saw it opening night
in a theater in Lansing, Illinois.
I took a girl from the high school
sociology class we shared.
she enjoyed the movie well enough
and she liked me,
but I was too dumb to realize.

I walked out of that theater
fundamentally changed.
I knew I needed to procure
a pair of black leather pants
and a conch belt.
I needed to study Nietzsche
and learn to write poetry.
I wanted to be a shaman
and a lizard king
and lead a pack of dopers
in a frenzied drum circle.
except I had no rhythm.
I was born into tone deafness.
leather britches were prohibitively expensive,
and I never met anyone
of First Nation heritage
kind enough to loan me their soul.

doing drugs was relatively easy,
as simple as getting on people’s nerves
by continually spouting goofy non sequiturs.
as a result, women maintained
a respectful distance.
I bought an anole lizard in a little cage,
but it soon escaped.

my hair fell out
before it could really grow out.
Nietzsche didn’t do it for me.
my attempts to start a religion failed.
I could write poetry,
more narrative than lyrical.
when the words flowed
I felt a spirit move within me,
more Polish than Cherokee
harboring an aversion to rhyme
and hippie drum circles.

Don’t fuck with the virgin

In the reign of terror, motives are inconsequential 
stained blue, bathed in blood
my veins pulsing 
with vibrancy, don’t look back, keep running forward
It’s always 
right behind you. It’s never a prank
glass shatters,
I will not be right back, curiosity 
killed the cat, I’m no fool
the shed, the garage, the cellar 
off limits
trust no one, but the craziest as the sanest
don’t split up
think meta
check the backseat, 
don’t be a victim, a crazed 
smile 
I am the one who survives, to live to tell the tale 
don’t fuck with the virgin
this is the night, I fought back

my father’s hands

there is nothing delicate
nothing of the luna moth
or geisha
in a japanese tea ceremony
about my father’s poor
hands

they are large and unruly hands
and I can see them
sometimes casting shadows
on my bedroom walls at night

my father’s hands
with their thick and twisted
octogenarian
fingers often panic
when trying to answer
his smartphone hammering the screen
swiping it poking it jabbing it
to no avail
the caller has hung up

my father’s hands
seem to be disconnected
from the rest
of him and are no more 
of the luna moth
when opening cans or closing
cabinet
doors than they are handing pots
and pans or washing 
themselves

anyway
I once had this dream
that my father’s hands 
were evolving in reverse
growing knotted coarse-haired
and finally powerful 
enough to crush 
a honeydew melon 
in one squeeze 

a feat for even 
a neanderthal 

The Word Kept Word

I’ve mistook
whores
for whores
pimps
for pimps and
reading between the lines as
reading between the lines.

I’ve mistook
what I love
and that I’ve loved
but never
what I hate
or that I’ve hated.

At Goodwill once
I saw a one-legged veteran
rise from his wheelchair
drop his shorts
and piss on a crucifix.
As they wheeled him out
he yelled
he wished he had
two cocks
so he couldn’t give
two fucks.

It’s hard to think
he could’ve been mistaken.

Walk of Shame

clambering home at five in the morning, staggering on my
stiletto heels while my mini dress and hair look all
disheveled. the bars were fun, the
patrons hot, and a lot of the free shots and drinks found their way
into my mouth.
the things that happened in the noxious bathroom stall
shall remain unmentionable. it wasn’t the shame
of what had happened that had my stomach
all knotted up when the bus ride
somewhat sobered me up. it was knowing that
Dave was sleeping in my bed—I was hoping
he was sleeping, anyway. most of my friends said he was the best
thing that had happened to me. he was trying to
make me reduce my drinking, to make me stop
snorting coke. I hated him for that, for trying to
destroy my partying lifestyle, but loved him for
everything else. he didn’t mind my going out on
my own, he hated bars and nightclubs but knew I
needed to party and blow some steam just so I wouldn’t
explode, but he had no idea that I often blew more
than just steam, especially after five, and free,
double Wild Turkeys. I made it
home, he was sleeping; got undressed and slipped into the
bed next to him. I made a silent promise that it’d be
the last time, perfectly aware it was one of those
false promises I’d never keep.
and I didn’t. two days later, I was back in
the bars, accepting free drinks from tall, muscular men I
made sure to get under before they got too drunk to function.
eventually, Dave asked me to choose: him or the partying lifestyle.
a few hours after he asked me to choose, I was wearing my shortest skirt
and was dancing on a table in one of the city’s sleaziest nightclubs.

fork in the road

she comes up to me in a rusted banged up honda civic
as i’m emptying my piss cup in the bushes next to my shitty car
i’ve been sleeping in this sketchy parking lot
for the last couple weeks
i light a cigarette  
i’m so depressed
she says ‘do you have one for me?’
‘no, but we can split this one’
we pass it around
‘i’m hungry’ she says, then gives a look
‘i’m not in the mood’ i say
she says ‘come onn’
‘not today’ i say, as she comes closer
puts her hands on my chest
brings them down my waist
we go into my car
and she swallows it
i fondle my gun
she gets out
and she says
‘see you tomorrow?’
…’ok’ i tell her
fuck
i don’t know how to end this

The Motherfucking Boat

a moonfaced kazakh girl displaying
much cleavage; a lank-haired liverpudlian 
of noisy clattering tongue; 
a spanish dj offering african chants to jupiter 
and jupiter responding with a late-night summer 
thunderstorm, the lightning glittering 
in the waters and dancing around the boat like fire,
then following you off it, leading you splashing 
along peachblue cobblestones past neon
burger joints the sleeping u-bahn station
a man with missing fingers lighting a cigarette 
raucherkneipen ugly pre-war buildings 
squatting in the bowels of pink crepuscular dawn. 
it’s 5 a.m when you get home, some crumbling altbau 
in neukölln, the walls eternally damp from the swamp 
this city was built on, a mildew odor rising 
from the cellar, a toilet you can only get to 
if you walk through the shower. you do that, 
careful to step around the puddle that forgot 
to go down the grate, then crash on an ikea mattress 
and wake four hours later, a colony of bees circling 
your head, your hearing eyes
listening to invisible fingers 
roving over a keyboard somewhere. you curse 
the ceiling, look to the floor, observe the damp 
pile of clothes that wore you last night. 
and suddenly you become conscious 
of your thick animal tongue and broken mind. 
is this you? or is this the universe 
happening to you? do you have anything 
to do with any of this at all? you close your eyes 
again and listen.