Days of Beauty, Strange Days

I move from place to place,
collect stories, meet new people,
take in the landscapes—
I don’t stay long in a single job,
I don’t anchor myself in one field—
I end my relationships after
two to three months,
don’t give women enough time
to fall in love with me
or truly know me,
its cruel to do that—
I’m weary of weeping faces.

At the new warehouse
I work in a freezing environment 
with three other coworkers 
on such a mind-numbingly
boring post 
that it’s made a talker out of me.

We face each other 
while breaking boxes
for nine and a half hours 
everyday,
dressed in high visibility 
jackets, skull caps,
face masks, scarfs—
the only thing visible
from our facial features,
our tired eyes.

We kill the time
by talking about anything
and everything 
while slowly going deaf 
by the loud machinery all around us.

Nihal, on my right
is a 22 year old Algerian
already married with
three kids, he says.

You really stepped your foot in it,
I tell him.

He shakes his head regretfully.
Apparently, his 19 year old wife
wants three more kids.
It’s stifling, he says,
I don’t make nearly enough money.
I don’t know what to do.

On my left, Neil, a fat boy
from Liverpool 
breaks the boxes with his elbows.

Don’t you just wish
you paid more attention 
at school, I ask him.

He says he has a better job waiting for him
in September,
a job at a call centre.
Somehow, sitting all day in front of a computer 
taking abuse from raging customers
sounds better to him.
I imagine him getting fatter and fatter
in a cubicle
leaning dead over his desk
at the age of 34 
because of his oversized heart
attacking him 
and lying there for hours and hours 
until his irritated boss approaches his body 
and gives it a shove 
and asks just what the hell
is he thinking going to sleep
on the job.

Opposite me, stands Steven
a 58 year old Scotsman,
all skinny and feeble and kind
and more energetic than the rest
half his age.
An ex junkie, 
my favourite person in the warehouse.
“Been on the Junk since I was thirteen,
me, pal, had to move to Ireland to get clean.”

I ask him if he got clean on his own.
Aye, he says, all by me-self.
Now, I just take Valium 
from time to time 
to take the edge off.

I nod. Valium is a hell of a tablet.
A very tasty poison.

At the bottom of each 
cardboard box,
bold capital letters in red
read:

WAYS YOU CAN USE THIS BOX:

1. MAKE AN IMAGINARY RACE CAR
2. MAKE AN INTRICATE CASTLE FOR YOUR PET
3. PUT IN ALL YOUR OLD CHARGERS
4. GIVE IT NEW LIFE BY RECYCLING IT

I take a black marker and write 
over the red words.
I have to entertain myself, somehow.

WAYS TO USE THIS BOX:

1. STORE COCAINE IN IT
2. SUFFOCATE A CAT
3. USE IT AS TINDER TO START A FOREST FIRE
4. FILL IT WITH KILLER BEES AND LEAVE IT ON A DOORSTEP

I put the box on the conveyor belt
and watch it travel through the warehouse.

After work I frequent 
a beat down pub 
in an ominous alley
you wouldn’t go through 
even if it saved you a lot of time.

The men there are dark-faced,
their women mean-looking,
all their hearts filled to the brim
with hatred,
it’s a foolish affair to hate,
yet they’re consumed by it.
I study them. I see the old me
shoulder to shoulder with them.

I drink two or three beers
and call it a day,
proud that I can drink 
not to get drunk,
proud I can take the world in sober.
Glad to not be leaning 
heavy against anyone,
glad to be able to help people
I care about, finally.

I wish to be kind 
but I’m afraid
of being kind
towards the wrong person.

On the ride home
I smirk at my rear view mirror.
The wind is in my hair
and the smell of spring 
is a fine smell indeed
and although there are many burned bridges
in my past 
I make plans for my future
too hopeful to even write about
lest I jinx them.

In these days of solitude,
in these days of beauty,
I am used to being 
a stranger amongst strangers —
I am my own home now
and when I go to bed
I don’t toss and turn
I slip right into
oblivion.

Some Men Who Have Paid To See You Nude 

include rock stars, a priest in clerical 
collar, serial killer when he still had 
at least twenty dollars & compensable 
labor outside of death row, a sad 
ex-FBI agent turned lawyer turned strip 
club owner turned Clyde while Bonnie shot cops 
popping up through a sun roof window, golf trip 
titans with vacation condos they bought 
to fill with small town rented pussy explored
spread wide on granite kitchen islands —
at least that was their thoughts that pour 
into your ears in the VIP, man
addicted to speed who runs a pharmacy,
two psychologists who’d shrink you for free.

Black Stockings

I bend over backwards for you
dressed in black stockings and ginger wine
gymnast
dancer
who plays Chopin on your seductive
grand piano

YOU SAY

You love my suppleness
my gracefulness
the way that I expose my self
mind
slippery soul
silence
mania

YOU SAY

You love how I show myself
to the night
under the
drunken
stars

I TREMBLE

you climb into the shower with me
your dark eyes staring me down
you suck my nipples and make them sing
you erection breaks free inside of me

lather me
fall to your knees
understand

An Explanation of Lucy

Lucy was a poem to fear 
in her studied calm, 
deceptive as violence 
disguised as artful play. 

The things she fed you 
might have been poison 
but you ate them 
without concern.

Lucy in her cabin on the lake 
welcomed strangers 
in her lyric way, 
unsavory and soft,
until softness was not an option, 
and her metric rhythm 
gave away the game.

Lucy loved the world 
with bread and roses,
and so her nature 
was not like most.

When she kissed others
she meant it as much
as when she kissed you,
and you took your beatings
willingly.

Lucy in her pretty dress
in her cabin by the lake
was a story to fear. 

She was every possibility 
and the promise of a moment,
a bag of small secrets
too beautiful to be true

Pronto

nothing like a new war
to scintillate your porno

dialing between stations
the radio between my ears

taking to your wily fingertips
in urgent advertisement

for friendly flag-waving 
fascist import agencies

I know the drinks are stronger
than smoke in surround sound

elevating our mutual mirage
in a strong-armed sweaty clench

nothing like a slice
of brains and sphincter

delivered pronto
to your foxhole

A Motion

The moonlit bastard of the city
oppressive in its phallic skyscrapers
insidious intent through its windows

I guarantee you are wasting away somewhere
ignoring painful actions,
windswept hair dragging along the
sex-ragged floor where once
we fucked in a rage.

Emerging at South Street from
the orange train on Broad Street
I am blinded by starsigns, overcome
with the saliva of strange women
who kissed me badly in a furious sex-craze.

Overcome with joy at this new freedom;
sweltering frozen asphalt of Philadelphia;
sweat and fluids on the couch cushions;
do you have more for me
than a degradation or
a motion?

Summer Pickup

We met on the only 
hot night in Seattle–July 1993, 
the year summer never came. 

Both of us at the Blue Moon, 
drinking pints and checking out 
the other drunks. 

A married acquaintance
brought you to my table, 
playing matchmaker
after you hit on her first. 

You gave me the once-over,
spilled your beer several times, 
and followed me to my car
to smoke a couple of bowls.

“Prepare for the ride of your life,”
I said, returning the pipe to
my ashtray. “I have a lover,”

you replied, “but she’s
more of a friend, really.” 

Back at your place,
you played Annie Lennox
and Bryan Ferry on a boom box
and gave me the ride of my life:

one that would rage
on and off, for a year. 

Sometimes, I miss the
deranged hubris of my youth: 
that unflinching belief
in my invincibility. 

On the other hand, it’s nice
to sit home with a cold beer 
and a bag of good cannabis.

No one can accuse me of
never doing anything rash.
I’ll always have memories, 
and an endless series 
of upcoming lifetimes
to fuck up even more. 

The Pretty Young Lady in the Black Wig

The pretty young lady in the black wig 
And I 
Got into a conversation 
And during the conversation
She told me she liked to collect dead things

And when I asked her what dead things she collected
The pretty young lady in the black wig
Became disinterested
And began talking to someone else

So at that point I surmised
That one of the dead things
The pretty young lady in the black wig 
Had no interest in collecting

Was ugly old
Me.

Sublimation

He thought he heard
some kind of muffled hiss
like the pop of a carp’s swim-bladder

He fell nine stories
smeared upon the asphalt
without so much as
a ‘holy shit’

Passers-by formed
in an orderly circle
staring down at the sight

Ice-cream cone like the holy grail
in the hand of a big-assed woman
greedy licks with elongated tongue
heavy with the plaque of decay

At such times
the wrecked remains
are abandoned beyond
all perception

The departing cool is pale
light as the breath
that fades from
pink to white

Piss trickles down
from under her skirt
wrapped around
broken thigh bone

Bicycle tires
and shoe prints
strange jewels
in a pool of blood

I Love It All

At night she kisses my wrist
where there used to be a dagger
trailing along the skin of a snail,
I thought I saw you downtown, 
the girl I loved. 

A friend of mine
tried to die by suicide,
thirty blue pills on the tongue resting,
a tongue which never touched mine.

Tonight I am at a party
in West Philadelphia
with a woman I used to
deeply share a love with.
We are sharing a drink
in a stranger’s kitchen.

I watched another woman
the night before remove
all of her clothing and say
I want you to fuck me.

There are too many main characters 
in this story.