Amateur 

I lost my drinking hand.  
This kind of thing happens all the time.
People lose stuff.
Keys. Wallets. Virginity. Marriages. 
Houses. Doesn’t matter.

I thought I’d left it at the titty bar on the boardwalk
but when I called and asked about my drinking hand
Chris, the bartender, said he hadn’t seen it
but that he’d ask around. 
Bartenders are used to people losing stuff. 

It’s possible I left it at the liquor store. 
Jim, the owner, is a good guy, a bootstraps kind of guy. 
He’d put my drinking hand in the Lost & Found 
if I left it on the counter or dropped it by the cooler. 
If Liquors & Lottery had a Lost & Found. 

The name Liquors & Lottery suggests 
Jim hasn’t lost his sense of humor. 
But its blunt description does suggest he’s lost his creativity touch. 
Once that’s lost not even Chris, the bartender, can find it
no matter how much he asks around. 

Losing my drinking hand in such an unexpected way
reminds me of that story by Gogol in which a guy loses his nose. 
He spends the entire story looking for his nose 
and it eventually turns up in a cathedral and refuses to return to his face. 
Gogol never lost his creativity.  

I doubt my drinking hand is in a cathedral. 
It’s gonna’ turn up at that little titty bar on the boardwalk. 
It’s Amateur Night. My drinking hand is probably 
working its way up some pretty girl’s skirt right now.
I’m calling Chris back before I’m banned for life. 

Medicine

You
are my medicine
when things are 
fever-pitched
fucked-up
shit
dismantled
glitched.
When calm
disperses
like cigarette smoke 
in fan blades, 
overhead—
tarring popcorn ceilings 
and textured walls
with burns and
invisible drops
of carcinogenic rain.
What better salve
for the poundings 
in my chest—
palpitations
consternations
vascularizations
reformations
indemnifications
of a life, juxtaposed,
away from those eyes
that mouth
that touch of skin, yours,
the sedation 
of cool breath 
on hot forehead
and the combing
of fingertips 
through currents
of sweat-matted hair—
this world I know. 
You 
are
my
medicine.

***

Originally published at Fire Dumpster Press

Perseverance 

I sit in diners 
and write 
poetry, baby – 
it ain’t much. 
And my bank account 
is losing 
which means 
I’m losing 
in this game 
of life 
where everything 
is measured 
by money. 
But there is 
something to be said 
about Perseverance 
when you’re on 
the losing side. 
I won an award 
for Perseverance 
in 8^th grade 
and it must’ve 
been telling 
because it is 
the one thing 
that’s stuck 
with me 
no matter what 
my situation 
has been. 
It sits 
on my shoulder 
like a little angel 
whispering 
keep going, 
you can do this. 
So I listen 
to it, 
trust it 
and write 
this poem.  

to boldly go

Captain Kirk always made me hot
and i desperately wanted him
to fuck me, just as i imagined 
him fucking Mr Spock.

i wanted to be bent over
his Captain’s chair,
on the bridge, Warp speed!
Mr Scott, warp speed!

he would whisper in my ear
as he took me, thrusting hard
and furious, whispering about
the Gorn and Tribbles, and
how i felt better than
Yeoman Rand and Nurse Chapel,
or the green girl from Orion.

we would transport down
to the surface of a strange new world,
make love in a jail cell
after they captured us.
Mr Spock would beam in to save us,
but he caught us joined together, 
his eyebrow would raise,
fascinating.

and i would die in his arms, as red
shirts always die, and no one gets
between Captain Kirk and Mr Spock.

Traumatized By Fairytales 

You have no memories of innocence 
just curated evidence of puerile thoughts 
in childish script whispered by the dark prince 
of punishment who visits you when you ought 
to dream of unicorns, chocolate egg creams,
prim fairies like a good girl should — not 
orgiastic in a flaming wood.  Deemed 
by good and evil both a sacrifice.  Taught
to open shamelessly all but the eyes 
and crawl towards the cruelest hands. Accept
their seed and reprimands.  Live traumatized 
by fairytales meant for those they defend
who have not lived the truth of how they end. 

the final makeover 

one day death 
will give you 
a makeover 
death will 
scalp you 
peel yr face off 
unravel yr shape 
like a mummy 
striptease 
tossing the dumb 
rubber suit 
to panting worms 
leaving you to 
look stunning 
in all 206 bones 
a bright brainless 
skull smiling 
w/ the same sun 
before you were 
born shining 
thru yr ribs

Bottomless Brunch

she pulls on her ugliest tights
the ones with the splatters & drips 
she wears every Sunday for bottomless brunch

& mutters something 
about how I spend all my free time 
writing poetry

I don’t like the way free time & poetry 
sound rolling around together in her mouth 
but it’s Sunday & I don’t want to fight

so I keep at it 
as she waves & heads out for mimosas
or whatever it is they’re drinking these days 

later, after I finish a poem 
& she returns flushed with late morning cocktails
the tights are a little less ugly 

& her ass looks like a million bucks. 
I plunge into the bottomless brunch
like a man who hasn’t eaten in days. 

Excelsior

Let us live
This life of knives,
Juggling razor blades
Along with babies.

Smiles of red
And laughter
Like gagging,
We shall prevail
Against nature
And ourselves.

Stack the wood high.
Add books
For the burning.

Let not the troubles
Boil in the sea.

Welcome them
Along with all nightmares.

Tremble gently
At the touch
Of a breeze,

Breaking
All the fingers
On each hand
That would hold you

As you dance
Along the precipice
That separates

Day from night,
Past from future,
And happiness
From all the other
Emotions
That overcrowd
Your mind. 

Curtains

& then, it hit me, hard: I was
engaged with my wife in a
discussion, a debate about,
curtains,
specifically, the colour of: I
didn’t know what had 
happened to me, I had NEVER
given a thought or a fuck about
curtains,
but here I was, actively 
contributing as though truly
interested in 
curtains,
but I’m not, I still don’t
give a shit about
curtains, 
you’ve got them or you
haven’t and who gives a
fuck about
curtains:
‘I think the Modern Yellow
Sunset is what would look
really good’ she said:
I nodded my head, smiled,
‘Yeah, let’s go for it’ I said,
hoping that would kill the
deal:
I was wrong:
‘Perhaps, the Antique Moon
Yellow, would be better’ she
said:
I nodded my head
and waited.

This Illness

I watch the cars 
up and town Broadway 
across from Cag’s bicycles
I wonder how many drive
idle with heavy hearts?

How many drift aimless
home from work with 
grease burned into their arms
with tears scarred into the
corners of their eyes? 

You can scrub the dirt from
your skin but you can’t clean
this illness from your bones.

I am sick and she is sick
and we were born into this sick world.
The medicine men on the corners
hold our dreams and aspirations,

We’ve traded Californian vistas
and white fences for landscapes
of death and urban rot.

Tonight I say I am going to kill myself
I’ve said this every night for months
and with each haunted evening
I tiptoe closer to oblivion
with the faith of a preacher.