Wednesday, October 15, 2014


He stands over the old man, still cooling off of the hot coals he had recently been toasted upon:  Now that he’s done, the young man says, I might as well tell him.

He tells him of the many mistakes he has made, of the many more he has yet to make, of the many, many more he will never, if ever, make. 

The old man rolls over to his side, scraping his crisping skin against the cotton, smiling, saying atta boy, atta boy and all.

Saturday, October 11, 2014


My thighs have become so large they look like watermelons.

The American kind, the kind without seeds.

Children flock to our yard, when we hold our annual summer neighborhood bar-b-que.

The other adults in the yard yammer and banter about so-and-so and such-and-such and talk through their teeth as if they were spitting out seeds of regret, remorse, or some other word that starts with something.

Meanwhile, the children suck on my thighs like glue.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

The Moment of Child

I was a child the moment you called me a child and I agreed.

I could, naturally, see the pickle you were in:  I was a grown man who had frauded his youth away on sex and liberal arts and now I was sitting in the corner, crying over the fact that I had nothing to make a dollar off of, and, as such, made you make your own dollar last longer.

There are a lot of things such things depend on, not least of all time and what that counts to. You didn’t know what my hands were doing while you were typing, and I didn’t know what yours were doing while I was once typing as well.

I was typing things that I thought would be good. You were typing things that made you good.

I just listened to hours of songs that we would always fall asleep to, and somehow wake up in each others arms.

We would condition the point to cold, that it was too cold to be alone on the floor while you were own the own the bed.

We would fall asleep listening to the same Radiohead songs, singing the same lyrics in our heads and maybe not, but we’d fall asleep and want to immediately brush our teeth, just beause that was what health wanted us to do, but I would rather just bite and apple and then you, with differencing, yet possibly similar, reactions simply depending on the apple itself, half torn a and half perfect. 

Monday, September 29, 2014

I Am Not a Nice Man

I hate who I am.

I once tipped a cow in Iowa, only later to eat it, feeling that I had made that girl feel infinitely lesser-than, something that was just to be a jest of a hollow joke, something that I forever felt a fever over and throwing up, afterwards, like something just to clean up, afterwards.

I once held Jen, behind the pool table.

I once told a friend that the best thing she could do was to be the worst woman she could be. I told her that sleeping with the dude that would eventually knock her up and leave her without even a goodbye, leaving me to pay for the abortion, that that would be the best thing to do, given her career aspirations & options.

I once told someone I loved that I loved them.

Friday, September 26, 2014


I sat down at the bar, waiting for him to show up, not wanting him to wander around the cavernous bar searching. He arrived behind me, grabbing my shoulder and saying how sorry he was late but so happy to see me still. We had an argument, of sorts, neither of us able to tell the truth about what that argument was even about.

He said he was unhealthy and I could hear it in his breath. He said that he wanted me to know that there was no single source of support aside from me.

I found this to be rather stupid, since I had only agreed to this meeting on the fish fly of a free drink and that mild flirting that we had engaged in in the past but now I had found boring.

He gasped out a few fine points of connection – something that made me feel sad for him for making me feel sad for so long.

He then took a drink, coughed it all up and then some, and told me how he was so happy to see me but he had to leave, just because and I said ‘of course’, just because.