mother’s lil bro

I can’t respect
a thirty-four
year old man
who calls his mother
“bro.”

repeatedly
over the speaker phone
I have to listen
to his vapid
narcissistic
meanderings.

every sentence
basted with
a sociopath’s
false sauce
of canned emotion.

every plea for money,
every whining excuse
for his every
existential debacle

ends with
“hear what I’m saying,
bro?”

his mother
is trapped between
exasperation
and adulation.

in his entire
“adult” life
he’s never held down
a job longer
than three months.

one of these days
he’s going to grow up
his mother
continually predicts.

it just hasn’t
happened yet.

until then,
she wires him
another hundred dollars
for rent.

two hundred dollars
to help him
make his child
support payments
toward four children
who will never
know the joy
of hearing their daddy
call them 
“bro.”

four hundred dollars
to bond him
out of jail
for something
he was totally
innocent of

it’s just bad luck
“bro.”

hear what I’m saying,
“bro.”

thirty-four-years old.

After the Wake

Yellow wallpaper  
peels 
behind faded pictures 
in dusty frames,  
falling to the floor  
in ashen drifts—ephemeral— 
of births and wakes, 
stabbing  
to the heart 
like first kisses 
or cold sips  
of Orange Crush 
but dulled 
from memory  
(and time) 
like giftless Christmases  
and old calico,  
drying on the line. 
What ghosts roam these halls, 
haunting bowls
of waxed fruit
and glass doorknobs,  
lingering ‘round chicken coops,  
dust bunnies, 
and jelly jar glasses 
like palls 
or the bitter of burnt almonds. 
As a pale pink echo 
of rose 
peeks through the air’s must,  
a voice whispers, “Remember this. Now,” 
leaving me to chuckle and smile. 

How silly it is to mourn life as we live it.

***

(originally published at The Gorko Gazette)

House of Fleeing Winds

I am the crippled saint rapping at the door 
of forgiveness, creaky oiless springs
a house of fleeing winds
thoughts darting across a sea of wanton olive skin night

I am the storm rattling iron door handles
stone churches dangling over faded waters, orphaned rains
dark seaport nights
young wives of the sailorhood praying for good to come 
no widow’s hand to touch
the merry band shoves out to Brittany wine darkness 

I am the star of storms
whipping brewed mists
and mandolin ash bone trysts
sunrise-blue groans 

I am the nail in my hop-along cassidy coffin
pining lust busted caverns
in a torrent of rain on dream street

born backwards my dice tumbling rocky roads
eternally awkward in the hall of cracked-eye perfection

zen-headed dottard riding a youth dew vapor throne 
in a dime dance parade 
oopa oopa cops with maiden-bated breath 
hangovers hanging on a thread of orderly 

In a nightmare I saw a
warrior of yore darning obedience stockings
Redyard Rudyard cries
‘An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it’. 

St Vitus does the jerk over red hot coals
as the earth hums a dirge in the key of catastrophe
the kids chanting Runaway

I saw God
he looked me in the eye from a soft orange cloud 
whizzing over rumble town
I am the star of storms escorting you through 
red-light servitudes
scorned devil moons, brooding mama’s

lady peppermint fondling the jade egg of Napoleon’s daydream 
the messianic bus driver honking with his tin-horn hat
better climb aboard. or run for your life
fast

My Troubled Brain

The doctors thought the solution
To my problems was just a matter
Of splitting my troubled brain.
But that only doubled my anxiety.
Now there’re two moody Jekylls.
One says white, the other black.
Angry words, endless arguments,
One hand gouging at my eyes,
While the other hand chokes me.
Enough!  I put a pistol to my head.
They wrestle over which half will
Get splattered across the room.
Escape is the only remedy and
I’m ready to board the plane but,
Damn it!  My ticket’s for the bus.

The Buddha in the Key Largo Swimming Pool

Ten potbellied air compressors 
sitting 
in the shallow end. 

They have come from the panhandle. 
They have come to release the pressure valve. 

They have come with Yeti coolers
brimming with Bud Light, 
bags of shrimp, other delights.

And on their radio: songs of pride.

These men are patriots. 

These men are men 
by almost anyone’s definition. 

But they are lesser 
versions
of their leader, the largest, the XL 
potbellied
air compressor. 

He sits in the center 
like Buddha 
in blue-lensed sunglasses, 
his massive arms propped on the ledge, 
his ten-gallon straw hat lolling 
as he proselytizes 
about somethingorother. 

I wade across the pool to find out what. 
I figure
it must be profound 
considering
all the reverence they’re giving him.

Then I hear it: “I sold that 
lot for two-and-a-half.” 

That’s all. 

But punctuated 
with a belch, and a thrust of his arm 
toward 
the Yeti cooler. 

“More,” he tells one 
of his
underlings.

And is served. 

Drugs And The Woman

This is a story about drugs and the woman
in my cold midnight room

I think about the one I loved
she was fair she was clean

Every day had a bright tomorrow
but the spiders have their way

And the hangman has a schedule
tik tock and time ran out

But she left me bereft of me
The man had better game, was I to blame – no

8 balls and dime bags
fentanyl and pipes of Pan crack

The way to a woman’s heart is through her vices

She ran with the pipe ran with the smoke
slithered through the powder
CAN I SAY IT ANY LOUDER?

She bought it all, man
the dealer’s promise
the pimp hand
she belonged to the street
she was in the life
drowned in the pipeline

Bloody arms and bloody nose
Where have you been and where are you going?

Empty bed blues
he was at the White Horse Saloon

Sunset and Western
I had my gun all ready

He was lounging in the booth
All his boys were sucking up vermouth

When they saw me they all laughed
I heard them speak but I didn’t hear a word

My head was pounding and I reached into my jacket
Blew two rounds into his head then ran out the back

Lost the jacket ditched the heat
saw an old, familiar face standing on the street

just a little truth

the dog days of summer

all the pretty women 
have moved on

even the gypsies turn 
away and laugh

remember when you 
wanted to be a vampire
and live forever

someone spiked the punch 
again

three chords and just 
a little truth

find a singer and you too 
can get fucked in hollywood

she laughed when 
i said i love you

not exactly the confidence 
boost needed for a lonely 
soul

fireworks in the distance

nothing but cold shoulders
inside these walls

tomorrow never comes
and we’re low on ice

she wonders aloud about 
insanity

hold my beer

time to shoot down the 
sun once again

I Thought I Was Ready

I thought I was ready.  Clothes flung off.
Richard hard as rock in flagpole mode.
A wild woman grabs my tool and drags me
Across the room pushing me onto the bed.
She quickly introduces my peter to her snatch
Immediately getting into humpin’ and suckin’.
All those piercings and the nose ring, with
Armpits full of flowing yellow blond hair,
Definitely accented her stylish Mohawk do.
What was going to be a quickie lasted all night.
Sweet Jesus, I’d been done.  Satisfied and tired.
I didn’t even mind the new tattoo she gave me.
But I’m ready to get dressed and wander home
If someone would untie me from this bed.

Love Never Dies

In my nightmares
she’s still an idol
standing at the kitchen table
and gnawing at my fibula.

I remember red liquid
dripping down her neck.
She smiled and offered me a kidney.
“Where did you get it?”
An awkward shrug:
her right clavicle was in my hair.
“The neighbor came around.
The rest of him is gone.”

She fed a kiss to me,
a satiated lie.
It was her lover
I tasted in my throat
and then her screams and her despair
as I approached her with a knife.

And when I was alone,
I vomited her eyes up with a sigh.

my first book signing 

starving… rummaging around… i mustered up a mcketchup packet… rip the top off… imagine it’s a chick… put it in my mouth n suck… n fuck yea…

ima relish this

i do another line of crushed up adderall
inside my car that i’m livin in,
outside the library

ssnniiff

i look at my face in the rear view mirror, and laugh

( i am so depressed ) 

windows rolled down, it’s hot 

i watch a guy and girl passing by 

he’s tall, buff, mean looking

gurl sees me

gets excited

(??)

says, shrieking

“ARE YOU JOHNNY SCARLOTTI?!?!”

“um, sadly, yeah”

she jumps up and down

comes over
the guy follows, looks annoyed

“pardon the whip, 
rari is in the shop”, i joke 

guy looks upset 

she grabs one of my books (!!) from her bag
says “can you sign this for me?”

“sure” i grab the pen from her
“your name?”

“Naomi” she says, handing me the book

it’s all beat up
suffered a lot of water damage
i can’t help it
i make a joke
“did you get pussy juice all over this or wut”

guy looks mad
he puts his arm around her like she is his property
like he’s scared of me stealing his mcchicken

“relax, i’m not gunna take ur mcchicken”, i say 

“what?” he says like a bitch

i say back to him
“shut up bitch”

oops, haha, i shouldn’t have said that, 
i donno wuts gotten into me lately, 
this guy could easily kick my ass 

he says
“the fuck did you just say, faggot? reaching back like he’s going to hit me thru my open window 

oh shit, what do i do

“get out of the car!” he grabs my car and shakes it 

“what!” he screams 

he elbows my side mirror, snapping it off  

the girl says “chill chazz!!” 

“you’re real tough” i tell him 

he circles around my car, spits on my back window  

“fight me”, he begs

“no…”

oh yyeahh

i pull out my new pistol

(a reeal sexy model
best rated for blowing your brains out)

guy gasps, puts his hands up
“woah buddy, u win” he says, stepping back
“please don’t shoot. please”

i don’t really know what to do next …

“BANG!” i scream and he dives to the ground

i give the girl the book n pen back 

“sorry about that” i say

starting my engine 

girl says “wait, can i come with you? he’s not my boyfriend”

guy’s back on his feet “what, i thought we were together” ,“babe”, he pleads

“no, you’re a stupid asshole” she says

i open the passenger door for her

she hops in

i point the gun at the guy again

“BANG!”

he falls to his knees, like he’s just been shot

a dark stain grows out of his crotch. it looks like blood but it’s probably just piss…

and we leave.

guns are pretty cool

/i look her up and down, 
damn, i’m in the mood for a mcchicken

/pardon my outfit, i tell her.
it’s laundry day, i lie