Thursday, October 23, 2014


She was 44 and, no, not a woman
as such, but something that medicine
left nothing but bad stories and bloat.

That was on the day of the pushing.

*          *          *

She sucks up his talking and makes him
pay for it, like a summer singled out for
death, and harps on him for being him, now.

This on the same day that love coughs.

*          *          *

There were policies against such somewhats,
like the tender heart of November, always
caramelized together in mush and spice.

Odd pudding, he’d say, and nevermind.

*          *          *

She takes what a woman takes, alone
and to the point of the middle afternoon,
all day building a ceiling of honeysuckle and pouch.

She is that, that which compartmentalized her.

*          *          *

Thirteen days after the beloved, she velvetly
sweat out the rank and rigor of the bankroll.
The crippled cock, ordered like cheap Chinese.

The bars and shops of art and artifice, love.

*          *          *

Everything is orange and burnt and ember,
now a force that bleeds over the streets in
remembering and alternate remembering.

She is the ark and spark of a live wire.

*          *          *

Later, she will be the kind of woman who
men look at as a force of scare, an old Jenny
whistling like a kettle, the me sold solid of it.

Scared of words just because they exist in the air.

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.