Give it here

For you
the extra mile 
the long talk
the last sip 
all I have 
and then some 

mountains
move em

forget the world
here is a hand
that knows 
the dirt 
the blood 
lost to blood 

for you 
the very last mile 
bullets from every direction 
the hardest part 
the very last bite 
the other shoe 

this back; climb
on

I hear them down below
sayin; just jump already
they don’t even live in the same world as us

whatever it is
give it here
I’ve got you

whoever you are
reading this 
right now

when your night is long
and you can’t shorten the distance 
between your hand and your heart 
I’ll do what I can 
to see you through it

I want to see you through it. 

Rehab

Aw, man, rehab.
I asked, “Is this
Really necessary?”
It was just three DUIs,
The nose-candy thing,
And a couple hassles
With disturbing the peace.
It ain’t all that much.
But, no rehab and my
Workin’, bill-payin’ woman
Was gonna cut my ass off
Cold.  No cash, no nookie.
So I got with the program.
Got some mellowing drugs.
Got the shot that made
My tongue stick out.
Attended the boring classes.
Then came the enlightenment:
Backslidin’ was expected,
Actually seen as a part of
The recovery program.
That I could handle.
Sashayed out and had
A scandalously wild week.
Not sure when the cops
Corralled and returned
This heathen to the haven.
Don’t know when or where
I got this tattoo on my weezer.
Got some mellowing drugs.
Got the shot that made
My tongue stick out.
Then, got the bad news.
The state’s done with me.
No insurance, no money,
My woman done gone broke.
They put me on the street.
But still the law said
I gotsta be in a program
Or it’s Sing Sing time.
So now, I got my collar,
My shots, and my leash.
Three days a week,
The ol’ lady takes me
To obedience school.
I’m okay, the Lord knows
That I can hump a leg
With the best of them.

The End of Time

The minister on television
says these are the end days.
That might be true,
but I’ve heard the same thing said
every day since I was born.
That might just be
because I was born in the end times,
but when you look back to the past
and read history
you find that the preachers
have always been saying
“We’re living in the end days.”

You can place bets if you want.
Check the Las Vegas odds
on survival from day to day,
month to month, year to year.
Maybe you’ll win big.
Maybe you won’t.

You’ll never collect
if you bet the bomb will go off
in the next half hour.
It’s probably better
to tune it all out.

Pretend the news isn’t there.
Who knows if it’s real anyway?
All of it.
Truth is easily hidden,
confused, lost
in the noise from talking heads.

Live your life now.
Love your life now.
Be nice to people,
even if you hate their guts, 
if only to see the surprise
on their faces.

Watch your garden grow a half inch
in the new March weather.
Who cares if you live long enough
to see flowers let alone fruit.

You’ve got it all made in the shade
until that last moment
when you don’t.

Remember When We Watched Kill Bill Together

I cheered, maybe a little too much. 
The next day, you said you loved me 
then called for my hearse 
You are so impatient 
You couldn’t even give a girl time 
to get ready 
to die 

Before I knew it,  
my ride was there 
And you had me all set, pale-faced  
to your two-faced 

I didn’t get a chance
to show you my underwhelming 
zombie-cheerleader kick 
You would’ve been charmed 
I’m sure 

You always said I could make you laugh
like no other
So, now I’m a good little dead girl
’cause I know 
You will never laugh the same
again

Everything and Everyone 

I was only just beginning 
I was only just 

I took off my layers 
my shame my skin
I said “if I know you I know you”
and everything we need to be good 
and settled is just a small breath away

I took it lower
my whole face 
against the parking lot pavement 
some are born this way 
I’ve seen it happen 

enough gets taken 
and a person becomes gone inside 

I’m done with cruelty
with small hands mouths minds 
let them have it
whatever this is

when they ask you what you love
tell them: everything

everything 
and everyone

and I am only just beginning. 

Bunny Nightlight 

Still seems innocent on the wrong side of 
the screen, wan smile some degenerate broke
of a child beauty queen.  Refracted love, 
filtered in pink, bottom lip quiver bespoke 
or rose colored wink dependent upon 
her audience tonight.  Is she a good girl 
in obsidian, bad one in white, fawn 
or predator camouflaged in digital 
peonies, pine trees, backstory by 
Ovid, quotations of Sophocles? 
Most cannot decipher mirror image lies 
she scribbles in notebooks the naive 
fantasize to be pleas or private invites.
Shows scars to strangers by bunny nightlight. 

Erin Go Bragh

I said, “Erin go bragh.”
That’s ‘bragh’ not ‘bra’.
Tell that drunken woman
To quit waving her bra
And flashing her titties.
Every year the same thing,
St Patrick’s Day in an Irish
Bar, ‘pub’ in the old country.
Buncha damn drunks here.
And everybody’s Irish today.
By now, I’m used to the
Polish and the black Irish.
But, it’s the goth-type Irish
That I’ve overlooked before.
What’s the matter with you?
No, we don’t pull the wings
Off of fairies and we never
Would roast our leprechauns.
Oy vey, Aaron. Please, man.
Not still another round?
How can a man raised on
Kosher wine drink so much
Irish whiskey and still stand?
Aha! There she is, me dream,
My red headed darlin’ with
The twinkle in her eye and
A smile to melt your heart.
Tonight, I would make my
Move, but, I’m so loaded
That I can’t talk, just drool.
And, I’ve a noticeable bit
Of half-dried vomit crusting
On the front of my shirt.
Better wait for another time.
But then, being Irish, herself,
Maybe she’s into party animals.

Moments After

She lit a cigarette and
inhaled, then blowing out
silver shapes at the ceiling
she looked across at me,
as we lay side by side
after just making love.

‘I hope you’re ready
to go again by the time
I’ve finished this’ she said.

‘So do I’ I said.

I couldn’t remember her
name and I watched her
smoke the cigarette and
then mash it out into the
overflowing ashtray.

She blew one final stream
of silver from between
her lips as I felt her hands
exploring between my legs
and my stoned blood
began rampaging through
my body once again.

Bleared ’68

Things aren’t so good at home. 
So, when Dad conks out, 
after the doorslamming, wallpunching, 
dogkicking, hysterical cursing ceases, 
I steal the keys and cross the river to D.C.; 
to drink legally in topless bars, 
ordering zombies,
ogling bored sluts tease. 
So far this year they (not the dancers) 
shoot King, Bobbie, thousands of soldier boys; 
LBJ throws in the towel; war rages distantly, 
televized in your face.
My draft card, despite turned eighteen 
last October, in lieu of 1-A, reads: 1-SH; 
standing NOT for: One Shit Head.
My keenest memory 
from that blear called ’68: 
find myself stopped at a light; 
wee hour, road empty. 
Crack the door; 
tilt chin over asphalt;
copiously bepuke the 
double-yellow. Contemplate, under 
a foot from my nose, rejected booze. 
Light strobes green. Wrestle door 
shut; right self in seat; hands 
discover wheel.
Cruise the ununderstandable night, a 
drunk and very lucky warm bucket of spit. 
Jumpcut to carport; exit vehicle; 
stagger inside split-level 
upstairs to bed, 
Dad’s vodka snores strangling the dark; 
Mom, beside the breadwinner, 
tortured, drowsing. 
Amazingly – credits rolling – 
hero pinned as me – 
spinning in my room off to sleep – 
fail to focus enough to masturbate, 
for once in a moon super and blue.  

When You Don’t Know The Why 
or The Way of It

Listen
how the wind tail-ends
across the rivets 
of the George Washington 
how there is so much more of everything 
underneath all of this

a child crosses her heart and hopes to try
and remember these things
that no one else can see

and pain will replace it
we know this
but there is a sweet spot 
between then and now
hovering like god’s own 
across the water 

we are not so great, you and I
but we are sturdy
at times
do the right thing 
mostly
by accident 
time and place 
rhythm and swarm 

in spring 
the earth pulses
with it
and winter will replace it
we know this
but for now there’s a wild blooming
things are born
and torn 

the prayers you say in the morning 
are always easier than the ones 
you say at night