Chappaquiddick 

Before we went to funerals we went to weddings.  
I remember yours because I got lost in the pool at The Flamingo 
and someone had to call Virgil to bail me out

the Red Sox had just traded Nomar 
and Eva Green still had the best tits in Europe.
We had flown off West to sing poems

Rob was there, and “the Kims,” the Boiler Room Girls 
whose skin glowed like the simmer dim of Edgartown. 
I had already crashed two cars that summer 

and my neighbor’s speedboat. Death by misadventure 
waited around every corner and it’s impossible to play 
both sides of the conflict 

when the ferry never reaches Chappaquiddick. 
I had some of that rocket fuel from the guy in Haverhill 
and your brother and I marched under the bright lights

with brigades of tiny Bolivian soldiers 
taking about lovers and lizards and Malcolm Lowry.
One cannot live without loving, he said. 

The Sox went 42-19 after the trade 
and won their first World Series in 86 years. 
We are the sum of the harms we’ve done to others 

and I watched you get away 
while I was singing in the stern  
to anyone who’d listen.

Lady of the House

“so, boys, you looking for a good time, eh? huh?” she asked,
prodding my ribs with her elbow. “my girl’s best in the block, I promise.”
“we’ll see,” my friend muttered, keeping his hands crossed together.
“we’re just looking,” he added.
“oh, you see, my girl’s best. you see. want a drink?”
“no, thank you,” he said, shaking his head.
“what you’ve got? and how much does it cost?” I asked.
“vodka? with some sprite? it’s free.”
“okay, sure. are you having one, too?”
“yes, yes,” she nodded and leaped to her feet.
she was in her mid-sixties yet walked with the elegance
of a young stripper. she brought two plastic cups to the table
and poured the vodka sprite in front of me. same bottle for both cups.
either she had high tolerance to tainted booze or it was real vodka.
well vodka but I didn’t care. she made it strong, just how I like my cocktails.
we drank, and lit cigarettes.
“ah, here’s Natasha,” she exclaimed when a door creaked.
a hunched olive-skinned man that couldn’t have been older than 18
clambered to the exit, avoiding our gazes, followed by a short, thin,
and super busty tanned girl of perhaps twenty years of age
wearing silver booty shorts and a silver sports bra.
her black platform heels looked more like a medieval torture device than shoes.
“so, what you think?” the old woman asked.
“okay, I’ll go in,” my friend said with a hungry glisten in his eyes.
“twenty for half an hour. thirty if you want anal. wear condom.”
“okay,” he said and paid twenty. the dumb cheapskate.
I leaned back on the wooden chair and had a good gulp
of the drink just to numb my ass enough so I’d be comfortable.
I exhaled a plume of blue smoke. “so, are you next?”
“no,”  I shook my head. “I’m just accompanying him; he’s the horny one.”
“you no horny? you no want to fuck?”
“I do all right.” “okay, okay. what do you do?”
“I drink. occasionally, I write, too.”
“ah, what you write?”
“life in the gutter. booze, drugs, whores, dancers, bums.”
“uh-hum,” she nodded, and kept quiet.
I might have seen my fair share of the gutter, slept there a time or two,
but she had a lifetime of experiences. I wanted to prod her mind,
get some valuable answers to questions that hadn’t yet formed
in my mind but I was still too sober. I drank and moved around in the chair,
trying to get rid of the annoying pain in my tailbone.
“you write from experience?” she asked.
“yes, some,” I nodded. “you’ve done this a long time?”
“all my life, yes,” she said, and her lips twitched into a smirk
as her accent vanished. “came down to the city when I turned fifteen,
looking to escape the village I grew up in. thought I’d make something of myself,
you know? well, I was penniless and jobless, and had quit school when I was twelve.
ended up in a brothel, not unlike this one. the money was decent,
the woman running the place was kind, and most men were kind.
did this for almost thirty-five years. eventually, I decided I was too old to keep doing it.
running a brothel made more sense than trying to find another job;
what would I put on my resume, after all?” she chuckled,
then paused just long enough to refill our empty cups and light another cigarette.
“it’s not an easy life but it pays the bills and keeps me out of sleeping next to dumpsters.
gotta admit, never saw anyone like you, though.”
“what do you mean?” I asked with a groan.
“well, your friend looks rich, and desperate. you…I can’t read you.
you’re dressed all fine, you have manners, but you drink faster than most alcoholics
I’ve met and obviously have no intention of paying for sex.”
“well, I have outdrunk bums,” I said, raised the cup, and chugged it. “still free?”
“yes,” she rolled her eyes and filled my cup, half half.
“I was impressed with how you questioned the quality of the vodka.”
“not my first time in a whorehouse, I know what they usually serve to customers.”
“it’s what you would have gotten, too, if you hadn’t shown you had smarts.”
“figured. so, never thought of getting out of this?”
“thought of? many fucking times. never tried it.”
“you are offering a service to the world. making sure some weird guys get
to blow a nut here instead of going on a rampage out there.”
by the time my drink was drained, the door creaked. my friend ambled out of the room,
his face glowing and with a moronic grin twitching his mouth.
“you done?” I asked. “yes. shall we go?”
“how about a drink here?”
“um, no, I…let’s go to a bar, huh?”
“sure,” I succumbed, mostly because I was living at his place.
“nice to meet you,” I said to the old woman.
the prostitute had sat on a chair on the other side of the room, looking at her phone.
my friend had certainly not rocked her world;
I wondered if anyone had while she’d been working there.
“you, too,” the old woman said. “do come by again, if you want a drink.”
“sure thing,” I said.
I ordered a gin and tonic at the crowded bar;
my friend got a glass of Bailey’s on the rocks—basically, spiked milk.
as we sat at our table on the sidewalk, next to the flood of people
walking up and down the street next to the edge of the sea, I saw no one
as inspiring as that old woman that had been
in the prostitution business since she was fifteen.
all I could see were dull people hoping that a few drinks on an island
would spike up their meaningless existences.
I drank up, ordered another.

The Knife’s Friend

Knives glint in the
Moonlight, 
A man polishes his
Collection to perfection. 
Creaking ceased his busy hands,
And a young woman
Enters the room of her own
Volition. 
He bows,
Welcoming her to his 
Wondrous abode. 
Introductions to his 
Three favorite
Friends
Ensue, 
Them shimmering in the light.
They cut through the girl’s
Skin 
By accident, 
And he comforts her
By consuming her
Blood. 

Oh, Grow Up

The Easter Bunny doesn’t lay eggs,
not even the pink fuzzy one
with the drum on his tummy
and Energizers up his ass.
The Tooth Fairy deals in used body parts,
cheating children out of their 
pearly whites for chump change.
Santa’s been bitching for years
about the quality of the edibles
and the room temperature dairy products
you cheap bastards leave out.
I’d bet St. Patrick was an alky who saw
more snakes than he drove out of Ireland.
Now he’s just an excuse for green beer,
and how sad is that?
Only the Christmas Turkey
gets his just desserts
with a Yule log, spiked eggnog,
and fisted stuffing.

Deathbed

When you die, 
life doesn’t flash 
before your eyes.

There is only
the void at the end 
of delirium’s tunnel. 

The surge of 
vital organs 
powering down, 
oxygen deprivation
strangling the brain
and intraveneous 
morphine drips…

…illusions,
delusions,
and auditory 
and visual 
veridical
hallucinations, 
feels like spiritual
transformation,
providing false hope
when one experiences
and witnesses 
of their ghostly god 
who blames your ills 
on your sinful life, 
accompanied by 
apparations of 
angels soaring around 
the room like birds 
trapped indoors in 
a world of hopeless
glass windows,
and loved ones lost,
promising a second
chance for reunification
and reconciliation,
coaxing you to follow
the burning light,

down the 
everlasting slide
of terminal lucidity
in Lucifer’s eternity.

So, what’s wrong?

“so, what’s wrong, hun?” she asked as I slogged into the bar near the port,
brimful with tired sailors and scantily clad women, for the first time.
I had to stay away from my regular dive for a while; too many memories
imbued within those beer-stained walls and on my whiskey-covered barstool.
“nothing,” I shook my head and climbed on the barstool. 
“how about you buy me a drink and tell me what ails you?” she insisted.
“how about,” I riposted, “I buy you a drink and we don’t talk for a few minutes?”
“that’ll work,” she said with an uncertain smile. I got us two Jim Beams, double and neat.
I chugged mine, ordered another.
“you’ve got a reason to drink?” she asked, nipping on hers.
“you don’t need a reason to drink, drinking in and of itself is beautiful,
but, yes, tonight, and for the past few weeks, I’ve had good reasons to get drunk
out of my fucking mind. how about you?”
“I need to drink to deal with the manners of some of the people that come in here.”
“right. sorry if I came off as an asshole. usually, I’m just a dick.”
“well, dicks is what I’m here for.”
we both chuckled. I drained my bourbon, got another.
she still nursed her first. “break-up?” she asked.
“yeah. the permanent kind. she died.”
“shit, I’m sorry,” she said and, for the first time, her voice sounded genuine
and her eyes stopped emanating fake sympathy and feigned lust. “are you okay?”
“no. I will be, though; after five or six more of these,” I added,
raised the glass, and sank it. “thanks,” I said to the bartender
who just refilled my lowball without even waiting for me to ask.
“I’m Jeanette,” she said. “it’s my real name. not many people in here know it.”
“George,” I said. “everyone knows my real name; well, those I care enough
to tell them, anyway; there aren’t that many, to be frank.”
“you’re interesting,” she said.
“trust me, I’m not,” I corrected her.
“get me a beer, man, will you? large draft,” I told the bartender.
“beer?” she asked, arching her eyebrow and twitching her lips into a smile.
“yeah. gotta sober up. if I don’t, I might end up paying you for sex.”
“I wouldn’t charge you,” she shook her head. “something about your eyes.
they tell stories your mouth would never do. you’ve seen stuff, done some shit.”
“get her another drink, will you? she’s way too sober and is scaring the crap out of me.”
“I haven’t finished my drink yet,” she protested, with a giggle.
“well, better hurry up. I want to get your intuition skills drunk before it’s too late.”
she chortled, then drained her lowball with tremendous ease, putting to shame seasoned drunkards.
“just so you know, you don’t have to get me drunk to take me to bed,” she informed me.
“as I said, I’m only interested in putting your reading people skills to sleep. don’t care about the rest.”
we didn’t talk much for a while; she finally stopped prodding
into learning my story and I didn’t care for talking anyway. I drank my beer,
had another, had some more double Jim Beams. as I drank,
and got drunk(er), she walked around the bar several times,
coaxing other guys into buying her drinks. that was fine;
she’d always return next to me. “well,” she said suddenly,
I was too deep into my cups, “my shift’s over and the bar’s about to close for the night. how about you come to my place?”
“I don’t have the money for special treatments.”
“I told you earlier, though it’d surprise me if you remembered, you won’t have to pay for anything.”
“fine, then,” I said, right before ordering my usual last call drink(s):
a bourbon, a shot of gin, and a draft beer. she got a double Jim Beam, on her tab. we drank up, then left the bar along with the drunk sailors and tipsy whores.
her apartment was just across the street. top floor in a three-story red-brick house. tiny place, just a living room/kitchen and a bedroom (plus bathroom). still bigger than my apartment.
“so,” she asked after bringing two glasses of whisky and water, “have you drunk enough to forget what you’re trying to forget?”
“there’s not enough booze in the world.” I almost gagged on the acrid taste of the scotch she’d served me. it was a free drink, though, so I manned the fuck up and drank it. “not enough drugs, either.”
“maybe, I can offer something different,” she said and shoved her tongue down my throat.
she climbed on my lap and my hands went straight to her ass. it felt both right and wrong sucking on her tongue while she ground her ass on my prick.
the booze had killed my hydraulics; maybe, it was grief. probably both. undaunted, she thrust her hand into my jeans, her warm palm connected straight with my junk. rubbing and massaging, hard and demanding. gave my drunken body no option;
soon, my blood migrated from my spinning brain to my pulsating cock and I was hard.
with excitement shimmering in her blue eyes, she slithered down from my lap and got between my legs. she yanked my jeans down around my knees and took me in her mouth. her auburn hair covered her face and I had to close my eyes, to stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks.
memories flooded my brain, and the booze in my bloodstream would not let me enjoy the moment without reminding me of everything I’d lost.
her slurping and gargling sounds reverberated across the small room and I buried my fingers in her hair. soon, she was back on my lap, her panties on the floor and her mini skirt hiked up.
in she took me, no questions asked, no condoms worn. the no-condom thing brought back more memories, darker memories, but it didn’t matter. her tight, warm, wet embrace managed to eviscerate most of the guilt from my palpitating heart and as she sucked on my tongue, I decided to surrender to her whims.
she jounced on me fast and hard; faster and harder as the hooch had engendered an invincibility toward her tightness. at some point, I started throbbing. she was huffing and puffing, exhausted from having to ride me for a good long while. I wanted to throw her off me before I came, but it was too late and I was too weak to pull out.
“don’t worry, I’m on the pill,” she whispered in my ear.
I wished I’d heard those words a couple of months ago. things’d have been wildly different.
panting heavily, she sat next to me and kissed me on the bearded cheek. “come, let’s go to bed,” she said. I accepted.
I wanted to go home and drink some more, but I had no strength to return to the streets, let alone wait for the fucking bus.
we lay down in her double bed, naked and sweaty and dizzy, and passed out before I could even think of how many men had jizzed on the fucking mattress.
come morning, and hangover, I thought about it; too bad a headache to care. I crawled out of bed and clambered to the bathroom. took a piss, puked.
“good morning,” she greeted me with a heavy voice when I shambled into the kitchen. “coffee?”
“sure,” I grunted and flung my numb, throbbing carcass on the couch.
rolled a cigarette and lit it. “you don’t mind my smoking in here, right?”
“no, it’s fine,” she giggled. sat next to me and I took the mug she gave me.
“good coffee. strong.”
“figured you like it black and strong.”
“yeah, unlike my men,” I chuckled. “sorry, an Airplane reference.”
“what?”
“haven’t watched the movie? you should. a funny masterpiece.”
“maybe, we can watch it next time?”
“sure,” I said, without even thinking. “well,” I cleared my throat after I finished my cigarette and coffee, “I should get going.”
“alright,” she nodded. “wish you could stay a bit longer.”
“maybe, next time.”
as I got dressed, I expected her to tell me how much I owed her for the night.
she never did. it was, indeed, free. “you’re welcome back here anytime,
unless I’m working,” it was the only thing she said as I stood under her doorway.
“do come by the bar tonight.”
“maybe, I will,” I said and climbed down the spiral staircase,
each step I too bringing a new jolt of pain in my head.
I made it home, took a shower, and had a beer. wrote a couple of poems,
drank some more beers. I got dressed and walked to the bus stop.
in twenty minutes, I was sitting on the same barstool
in the same bar by the port.

The Daily Catch

She came to the Halloween party
in black fishnet
and someone asked what she was
and she said: a fisherman’s net.

Smells like you caught something,
I said.

Not very nice, I know.

It just came out.
Like a nasty drunk.

She kept staring at me
for the rest of the evening.
Trying to murder me with her glare.

I knew that was what she was doing.
Then I didn’t feel so bad
about my insult.

I mean, out of all known proportion,
the crazy bitch was trying to kill me.

Under the Gun

Roll out of bed. Bed rolls out of me. The floor rolls like a sailor at sea.

Slouch toward the kitchenette. A guy occupies the couch – hubby of the gal I, at the party last night, screwed on the toilet seat? Points at me a gun. Large revolver. Classic .357? I don’t know guns; though I love the precision of their build, and of the ammo they hurl.

I say, without interrupting my death-march to the kitchenette, “Your wife always fart when she cums? Or that because my dick so much bigger than yours?”

A click – as of a hammer cocked – clicks.

Hope to make it to the finger-smeared fridge, and the iced Nescafé inside. Hope to get down enough to wake up and realize this all a nightmare – the party, the toilet, the too-high wife, the gun, the guy…

Not the couch. I need the couch. For those occasions I coax a female down here; because she often kicks me, for sundry reasons, out of my own bed.

Or, if this real – hope, in that last frame, as the slug flies ahead of the bang, to see why the ugly – especially when bad – always feels too good.

Paris Hotel

Drunk at noon in the city 
of Baudelaire, I am back at my hotel, deprived 
of sleep, 
here for an afternoon nap. 

I yank the curtains shut, lie down on the bed, 
think about all the ghosts 
who’ve occupied 
this space 
before me. Ghosts. 

I can almost see them gliding 
across the carpet, laughing, arguing,
making love in the milky 
maundering moonlit
hours. 

This hotel is ancient. It’s at least 200 
years old.
I can hear a strange occasional 
clicking
inside the walls. I can hear the floors 
groaning. 

I can feel the heavy rumble 
of the metro 
as it passes 
underneath the building. 

I fold the pillow around my 
skull, throw the duvet 
over me. 

But after about 10 minutes, 
it becomes clear – I’m too wired to sleep. 

How can you sleep in bright liquid 
August 
in the city 
of Picasso, Hemingway, Cendrars? 

I ponder the question for a bit, 
though I know the answer. So, 
I climb out of bed – I too 
am a ghost 
in this hotel’s memory – pulling 
up 
my trousers, lacing my shoes. 

I grab my wallet off the dresser 
and, 
remembering 
I am in the city of that big-souled thief
Villon, remove bank card
licenses Deutschland Ticket
everything 
but €30
and head up to Montmartre.

No Need of a Map

devils in my head
angels on my shoulder
telling me which way to go
horns or halo
salvation or damnation
i know the road i’m on
i turned that corner a long time ago
there’s no turning back
not now
not ever
as the bodies pile
the blood flows
the whispers continue
another mile
another life
one way
all the way
you can’t be first
you may be next
and miles to go before i sleep
and miles to go before i sleep