Le Femme ( for Justin)


Some say he'd gone mad in early May 
pacing weary torturous nights 
in his white shirt sleeves rolled up
stained with days of sweat and paint 
lusting for the perfect woman in his mind
she called him to the blank canvas's throb
to his paints and blunt mixing knife

he dipped his brush in crimson red 
painted a pulse that could only beat for his crazed eyes 
gold in her hair blazed on his canvas
dim light caught the sparkle in her blue eyes
he painted her luscious lips with his bourbon drenched mouth
his brush stroked her curves to fit perfectly in his arms 

trill of her laughter on his Gitanes yellowed fingertips 
he brushed her spirit in colors of spring

dawn squeezed through rain washed panes
crept on the floor and cast
a transparent linen on his broken body 
his paint brush dug deep in his heart
foot prints in his colors on the ground
of a perfect woman gone feral outside his mind 
a blank canvas torn to shreds 

a pale moon lingered in May skies

Sorry

Some of them
actually
loved me.

I am sorry
most of all
for that.

Lynne might have
if I had let her,
I think Kara did.

Gina never
had a chance.

I was too
afraid.

Some of them
loved the idea
of a man who
would turn his
back on God.
Blame him
for the girl who
sang his songs.

One asked
what does she
have
that I
don't.

She would stare
at the photos
framed on my wall
and say,

am I not
as pretty?

don't I
love art?

do I not
do the things
you craved her
to do?

She loved me

and for that
I am sorriest
of all.

Children together.

If we were children
together on some
playground of a
made up world
I would show
out for you-
turning somersaults
as I vaulted from
a pinnacle swing,
loosing slack-
jaggling chains
to twist behind me.
My rubber soled
Keds smacking down
solid on hard packed
dirt. I would cut my
eyes to see if you saw
from a teetering
tottered board
lifting you up
gloriously.

I would share my
lemon-heads with you,
my red-hots, I'd
give you the arrowhead
my brother gave me-
a treasure that is
the finest that I
might own, I
imagine you'd like
it quite a lot. I would
woo you with notes that
said check yes or no,
and if you said yes
I'd run slower
at kiss chase in your honor.

I would stretch
out long and lean
in hot, spring-sun warmed
fields of clover looking
for the lucky one that
would make you
grow old with me.

If we were children
together I would love
you nearly as much
as I do right now.

The Stripper's Daughter

The alley seemed to stick to his feet, and the night stars spun like a disco ball if he looked up.He just had a couple of blocks to walk and then he could lay down. Ethan Blue judged how well he done at these things based on how many drinks people bought for him after he read.

"I killed tonight", he thought and shuffle-stepped a little to regain his balance. Then unzipped his pants and began to piss in the middle of the alley . It was the shadow crossing his own that he noticed first. He straightened a moment, shocked, then

his shadow collapsed on itself.

 6 weeks ago

Blue woke in the hospital sore from open heart surgery, his hand went straight to his phone. Checking his notifications he was pleased to see how many people had checked in on him. Even his ex-wife had come to St. Vincent's to hold his hand the night before the operation, five by-passes and a valve repair. He had been pretty whacked out but he smiled and remembered telling her that she had broken his heart and that this would fix it.

Looking at the scar that ran down the middle of his chest he thought it looked cool so he took a selfie that featured the pinkish line of puckered skin and the tubes coming out of his chest. When he posted, like always, women from all over left nice compliments about his looks. Harmless flirtations of an electronic age from women he would likely never meet. He wished they weren't quite so quick to say he was handsome, and maybe a little faster about appreciating the words he wrote. Still he would take what he could get, and the number in the red bubble at the top of his page was oddly tied to his satisfaction level any given moment.

 “How do you feel - okay?” the nurse asked walking into the room and making notes from the oft beeping- steady humming device that hung next to his head.

“ Pretty good, where's my laptop?”

 “ They put all your things right here, do you want me to help you set it up”?

She pushed a little wheeled desk that could be raised up and down over to the bed and sat the laptop on it. As she was straightened the cord of the charger she asked, “So from one to ten how is your pain level? I can bring you something.”

“Uh, seven, yeah could I get something before I start hurting bad”?

 “Be right back.”

He logged into his account, the red bubble full again, and the comments and kind words continued.  More “friend” requests, his first real book had just been made available on Amazon and the requests had started coming more frequently. Mostly old home town acquaintances who thought that someone with a book might be a more interesting subject for the new voyeurism that passed for entertainment now, some locals with an interest in things cultural, fans.  He clicked through them accepting most, others trying to decide how they might know him.

 Coming across a tall blonde with a great rack he went to her friend list. They had a mutual friend who was a supporter of the arts, an owner of a little restaurant downtown and a serious drinker of wine.

He looked through the blondes pictures and saw she was just back from Europe. In most of the pictures overseas she was with an attractive girl with a hip look and an aggravated smile.

 “A lesbian”, he thought and accepted her request to be his friend. The nurse came back into the room, cheerful. It was easy for him to believe that she was here just to tend to him, but she was busy with many other serious patients up and down the hall. She laid her things in his lap, and opened a syringe drawing fluid from a small upturned bottle, recapped it, then repeated the process with a second syringe and bottle.

 “ This is for pain management” she unscrewed the needle from atop the first and snapped into into a sort of “Y” in the plastic tube that fed into his bloodstream, pushing the drug in slowly,  “ And this is so the other one won't make you sick.”

“ I taste it', he had said as soon as it was connected to the tube. She had smiled to herself, understanding the relationship that he had with Opiates. “ Okay, and here is your call button if you need anything. I’ll be just down the hall.”

The warmth slipped through his body. It was like he was sleeping with an old girlfriend, familiar and good. He never shot heroin or Oxys anymore but he was not afraid of relapse and he enjoyed the sensation without guilt. After a moment he shifted his weight and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Pain rolled through him, his abdomen was so sore that it could not be counted on to assist him in sitting up. The brown canvas messenger bag where he kept his computer was still on the table and he ran his hand into its side pocket and came out with a plastic baggy and some rolling papers. Then he made the arduous journey of five steps to the bathroom  to smoke a joint, dragging the humming beeping thing he was attached to behind.

The blonde's name was Carrie, she began to flirt with him online. First a “like” here, a comment there, and soon they were private messaging. After leaving the hospital he  had gone to stay with friends and spent his days watching bad television made more palatable by eating Vicodins like M&Ms and smoking weed.  

Along with some others, Carrie would check in from time to time, they had exchanged phone numbers but still chatted via Facebook and were soon learning a little more about each other. As it turned out, she wasn't a lesbian at all but rather she had visited her daughter, the hip chick from the posts, who was studying in France. Actually Carrie had had some kind of long distance affair with an aging rock-a-billy guy from England and  that was why she went but that somehow went bad after she had gone to see him.

“ It was nearly over for me after that”, she told him and he knew how serious she was about the words left untyped. He had tried before himself.

Carrie also had great taste in music, she liked the same alt/country sound and all the saddest songs. She started to make an excuse for liking the “downer” ones but Ethan said, “Justin Townes Earl says there ain't but two kinds, sad songs and zippity fucking doo da - so what are ya gonna do?”

 “My friend in Nashville used to date him, they did bad things together.”

 “Who JTE?”

“Uh-huh, they went out a while. Crack I think, anyways Townes said it first”

It was his first real hint about her life, he was interested, thinking this one might be not be the same old thing. Truth was that for the first time in his life he was feeling pretty mortal. Wasn't sure of himself, he was trying to convince himself to like her, easier because she knew Townes Van Zandt, a favorite of his.

 “When are we going to meet in person”?

He typed a vague response, they kept clicking at keys, filling in gaps about who they were. Then she typed,

 “ Okay, here's the deal, I danced for 15 years, you know danced”.

For a split second his fingers hovered, still, above the keys then he burst out in laughter, “Hell I was married to a hooker!”, clicking  quickly, and they were both relieved that the other one was real, a genuine flawed human being. He was oddly comfortable and told her much of who and what he had been. He left out that he’d been homeless for years until not long ago but shared many other dark secrets. They set up a time to meet at the little gypsy joint where she worked.

The plan was for him to come in around 7, have a drink or two until she got off at 9. He put on his favorite jacket and caught a ride with his buddy downtown. When he walked in and saw her behind the door he was pleased at how she looked. It did seem strange to him to date a woman his own age but she was attractive, dressed in a stylish way, and they shared a common dark and twisty past. Sitting, he didn't even have to ask before she had made him a drink and sat it in front of him. He began to relax a little, thinking this might work.

“ Zoe will be here in a little while, she's at Chadwick's band practice and I will give her a ride home.”

“Zoe?'

“My daughter”, and she turned to seat a couple who had just come in. Ethan stirred the bourbon coke with his fingertip and watched her go. Two more drinks and about an hour and a half later and a girl with giant eyes and a cupid smile walked straight up to his table. Her features were exaggerated giving her the stylized look of a toy, she was too cute to be real.

 “May I join you?”

 “Holy Christ”, he thought, “this is the daughter – I’m screwed” ,then he smiled his most charming dive bar poet smile and said “Sure”.

 Turned out she was just back from France where she studied Literature, she read most of the same writers that he did, and eagerly discussed them. By the time Carrie had clocked out and joined them they were fast friends, both enchanted by the other.

The three of them laughed and traded stories until long after closing and no one had the least hint of sobriety by the time Carrie drove them all home. In the car Carrie told about a guy that had dated Zoe but now called her all the time.  Button down shirts, Khaki pants and handsome -he didn't really do it for either of them. They had a preference for guitar guys or quirky types. It was interesting to learn that Carrie, like Ethan, was accustomed to dating younger than her age. When he said something about it Zoe chimed in.

“ I like older men, my cut off is like 35 unless they are famous, then its like 50.”

 “Really, what if they are like semi-celebrity locally?”, Ethan asked.

   “ Yeah Zoe, Ethan has written books- he is a poet.”

Ethan was a little scared, a little confused, and a whole lot excited. For the life of him he could not figure where this might go. Luckily it was a moot point because when they arrived at Carries everyone fell asleep pretty quickly. Ethan and Carrie slept together but that was all, Zoe slept in her own room.

It became a sort of pattern, he would come to the bar sit with Zoe and go home with Carrie. They were intimate but not physical. Carrie having never gotten over the rocker guy, Ethan not even sure what he wanted and Zoe driving him mad with flirtation that went nowhere at all. Eventually he had most of his clothes, his laptop and toothbrush at there place. For all intent  and purpose he lived there. Soon he learned that Carrie, having lived her life as a six foot tall blonde with huge tits was accustomed to men fawning over her. Taking out her trash, paying her light bill, making her coffee in the mornings – all those little ways that a man says I love you. Sort of. The problem, if there was one, was that Ethan was also accustomed to being taken care of. He quickly played the poet card and only worked when necessary, occurring mostly between girlfriends. It was a standoff of a less than politically correct nature.

 “This”, Carrie said waving a finger back and forth between them, “you and me I mean, can never work.”

He laughed because he knew exactly what she meant but he wasn't sure what to do about either. He racked his brain to work out how he could remain friends with Carrie and end up with Zoe. But even in the midst of flirting Zoe had made it clear that she had a man and he had no hope.

“ His name is Chadwick Gabriel and he plays bass for Godless.”

 “Godless, what the hell kind of band is that? “ he had asked.

   “ Here look”,she said turning her laptop to face him.

It was a YouTube video of a punk band shot with a smartphone probably from Vino's downtown or some other similar venue. The guy she pointed at had a big pompadour long chop sideburns, he was swinging his bass over his head and crashing it into the stage. Swinging and smashing it until it broke, body connected to neck by beefy strings alone. The camera panned around and there was Zoe decked out in her best “my boyfriend's in the band” outfit. Oh how he wanted that which he could not have he thought to himself.

The truth was, as much as he liked being there with Carrie and hanging out he knew that it wasn't anything “real”, but for two reasons he couldn't bring himself to leave. First, if he were not there the back and forth game he had been playing with Zoe would be over. Secondly, with Valentines Day just around the corner, he did not feel good about doing anything but pretending he loved Carrie, she was doing much the same for him. She still seemed so fragile from the Rockabilly guy.

He had nursed heartache since his marriage, so he felt for her. They weren't so much trying to fool themselves as they were consoling each other. For a shallow self-absorbed drunken wreck of a man like himself, it seemed a hell of a spot. He rolled a joint and pondered his choices.

*********************************************************************

---

Ethan had read a half dozen poems already and he was having that Zen moment that he had read about- plus he was drunk.  His voice lower, deeper than when he was sober and conversation may have slurred but not his poetry. At the mike of a stage in the big little town where he lived was his natural spot. The new Southern culture welcomed odd ones like him and he felt grateful. The crowd smiled and he only had a hint of regret that Carrie, or Zoe, or somebody hadn't been there with him. Carrie had wanted a little distance, Zoe had  predictably done likewise after Blue had drunk posted on her Facebook page, she said he had crossed a line. None of that mattered one bit to Little Rock's Troubadour when he read out loud his darkest musings so he smiled and said

“ This one is called 'One', it's a new one that I just wrote”, and he read this poem.

Photographs,

women I have loved

hang framed

and glass covered

among

half finished paintings

and 33 1/3 speed

collections

of folk and country

sounds.

Mixed with group

shots of

dead poets from

college and

close-ups of pretty

tattooed feet,

toes spread wide.

Snapshots of past

lovers, a two year

old calendar and

a couple of

Observer columns and

one of those magnet

and metal filing games

you got as a

party favor when

you were a kid.

This one looks

like Zoe.

I keep the photos

of the old ones and

the new ones don't

mind.

They know.

I only really

loved the one.

What are a few framed

memories after they

have already laid in bed

with me and listened

as I talked about the

one.

They clapped and smiled and sent him drinks and when last call came and went  Ethan started walking home. Back to his futon in the rear of a friends office where he stayed between short lived romances. It was only a couple of blocks away and he knew a shortcut.

The alley seemed to stick to his feet, and the night stars spun like a disco ball if he looked up, but he just had a couple of blocks to walk and then he could lay down. Blue judged how well he done at these things based on how many drinks people bought for him after he read.

"I killed tonight", he thought and shuffle-stepped a little to regain his balance. He unzipped his pants and pissed in the middle of the alley . It was the shadow crossing his own that he noticed first. Looking up he saw a small angry guy that looked like a cross between Elvis and Wolverine with an expression that announced murderous intent. In his hand was what appeared to be the broken off neck of a bass guitar. Etha Blue straightened a moment, as the punker started his swing.

“The freaking guy from YouTube?”, his shadow collapsed on itself. Blood crusted and unconscious he had haunting dreams that no one knew who he was.

Or cared.   

 

Fall

I refuse to fall
for you
like something
from a clumsy
childhood dive
into a chat driveway
tearing my pants
and digging
little grey rocks
from my hands after
and then the red stuff
that burns.
(This is gonna
sting a little.)

I refuse to fall
for a(nother)
25 year old girl
with smoky eyes,
slender wrists,
and ankles that
fit perfect
in my hands.

Please.

I refuse to fall
for golden brown skin
freckled just below
collar bones that
seem carved by God
if he were an artist
like Picasso who
continued to  fall
in baby-making love
with girls terribly young
and beautiful as you
until he died.

I refuse even if
you pour me whiskeys
and tell me that
you support my writing
and wear my face
on white panties
next to your
oh my goodness.

I refuse to,

even if you are
my first coffee smile
and my hope I dream
as I lay myself down
to sleep.

I refuse to fall in love with you
(or even write you a poem).

One

Photographs,

women I have loved
hang framed
and glass covered
among
half finished paintings
and 33 1/3 speed
collections
of folk and country
sounds.

Mixed with group
shots of
dead poets from
college and
close-ups of pretty
tattooed feet,
toes spread wide.

Snapshots of past
lovers, a two year
old calendar and
a couple of columns
by Koon and
one of those magnet
and metal filing games
you got as a
party favor when
you were a kid.

This one looks
like Chloe.

I keep the photos
of the old ones and
the new ones don't
mind.

They know.

I only really
loved the one.

What are a few framed
memories after they
have already laid in bed
with me and listened
as I talked about the
one.

I began writing verse just for fun.
A hot betty asked to see what I'd done.
I gave her a look see.
She gave me the nookie.
Now I write poems by the ton.

Summers

On days that the unit
would chug and hum
in a battle against
mid-day heat it's
valor no equal to ability.

We would wake long
before we wanted and
we would fix knowing
that would mean an extra
one to cop that night.

Sometimes there would
still be a bottle and
we would drink brown
from the plastic cups
that came with clean towels,
from Flo's cart.

It was the closest we came,
ever, to being us. People.
To having conversations,
the regular kind or
at least how we imagined.

I told her I wished  I loved her.

She asked if I knew
any games that didn't feature death.

My coffee outdoors

I like when
the humming bird 
sits still
just a moment

unflapped 

by the world, 
then 
is gone again, 
ambition restored.

Cheese and Whine

My children
just left for
the school bus.

One of them
was crying
about cheese.

I promise you
I was the coolest
chick in high school.

Well not the
most popular or
prettiest maybe.

But I have always
thought my own
thoughts.

I didn't have
this style yet, no
horn rimmed glasses-

that rainbow dress
not even a thought.
But I promise I was

wild inside, oh
the things I did
in high school.

My children
just caught
the school bus.

One of them
crying
for cheese.

I See

We all  keep our
eye to the peephole.

Cookies are the
business cards of
our 5 and Dimes.

Brick and mortar
slain like the
buffalo on the
plains.

In this age
I buy books
and boots,
jerk off to
electronic boobs
I tweet
and they swoon.

I keep my eye
for an eye
to the peephole
for a peephole.

I let them see.

They see
the scars
and the vomit,
boogers and
Hep C.

They see
the ugliest part
of me,
if they put
an eye to
the peephole.

Fair exchange

because I see
the daughters
of dozens of dads
smile at my words
and warm
my old broken heart.

I see jazzmen
in Ireland
Travis picking
hillbilly tunes,
the songs of my father
and theirs.

I see stylized motifs,
India's truck art,
beautiful work
by Haider Ali,
and her street markets
with colors just
as rich.

I peek into the most
intimate of places,
as others share
their private thoughts.

Like early morning stoned
tattoo artists afraid
of dying before
understanding
how the ocean's
bed is made.

Like lonely new
teens who purge
and sing beautiful words,
and artists who cut pain
into their skin,
as if crying is a sin.

I am alone at the door,
but it is the humanity
I see

when I keep my eye
to the peephole.

Words among us.

If words

are my religion

then Verless

is my preacher.

It ain't what 

you think either,

I mean

he is a helluva poet,

but the world

is flush with 

helluva poets.

Maybe,

more 

the way he 

looks when 

he mentions 

his woman or
spends time

with his kids
wrapped in 

blankets,

watching t.v..

It's his
Damascus road

thing- shedding 

skin

and more in 

that change,

transformed.

The way he 

remembers

the pain and 

shares it,

forgiving his 

trespassers,

even his 

own transgressions.

Those are 

the hardest

to forget.

It's the hope

I  feel, the chance

for redemption

for the sins

of my father,

the sins of my own.

It is for 

that bearded jesus

thing that he does,

love for 

the tax collectors,

the hookers, and 

the drunks-

and most

of the other 

cabbies.

Maybe he is the 

thief on the right 

and I am

all that is left

and sometimes

all I have left

is his faith.

So that 

kind of makes him 

my preacher,

and if words 

are my church,

then this 

is kind of

my prayer -

help me

learn to forgive,

like Verless.

To be sad

The asphalt
parking lot
a rainbow
of petroleum
sheen
on this mornings
fallen rain,
a train whistle
crying
from a long
time ago.

The news print
sky still
sore from
it's passion,
and something
in all this
bears a sense
of nostalgia
that gives
me pause.

Struggling against
the past,
like bad nicknames
or Chinese
finger cuffs,

sticks me,

like cartoon
quicksand, my
greatest
childhood fear.

I worry this day,
but not of days gone.

I worry that
in Dublin
they'll laugh
at me,
calling me
the gobshite son
of Billys
gone over.

That appalachian
poets who
drive hacks now
in New York
will find me
esoteric, and
ask if I read.

That whiskey
voiced girls
cut from
misogynist cloth
will
dismiss me
quickly,
a dog and
pony show
who'd rather
get high.


On prison grey
mornings,
all these
things cause me
concern,
but mostly I fear
that one day
I will meet

her

and I will
no longer be
able
to be sad.

If I meet

her

will I ever
be happy to
write?

No Hope for Parole

I read once

that with Death

the first night

is the hardest.

I suspect 

it would take 

me 

a little longer 

to grow 

accustomed.

In the joint

the old cats

all say,

that when

it comes to

doing time,

the first year 

is the hardest.

It takes that 

long

to adjust to 

the pace,

to the dangers

of poison hooch,

and homemade 

shanks,

and the politics 

of jealous Nazi

punks who are

top of the food chain

and bottoms 

just for fun

because of

late night 

visits from

creepy uncles

back home

in the world.

It takes 

a while to know

the lay of the land,

the way of things.

It takes a while

to learn to slow 

your roll.

I suspect that in Death,

like prison,

the first year may be 

the hardest.

Move Slow

In the places
I have lived
lives, nine
times ninety,
the places and
the lives
numbers that
shame felines,

(The things
that I have done.
the same feelings,

shame.)

in these places
things move
slow.

Slow as steam
from a gut-pile
left hunter fresh
on November
mornings
in Arkansas woods.

Slow as crows
feast, for thanksgiving
until no evidence
remains.

At nineteen,
up North with
an uncle,
days spent
breaking back
and mopping
hot tar
I learned this
most valuable
lesson of all

in a bar called
Lost Acres
outside of Chicago,
on the Joliett side.

I met a guy
named Lucky
he had white hair,
a quick grin
and a small fleet
of trucks.
He rode a
Knucklehead Harley,
was clever,
and smooth with
ladies. He was
everything
I had always
pretended to be.

Lucky moved slow.

He took me
to Kings Shoeshines,
hooked me up
with dark ladies
whose tits
had cost more
than my car,
he drove me to
Cicero and showed
me where
to cop dope.

The first bag
on him.

The lesson
didn't stick though
until he asked
a pistol favor,
my debt weighing
heavy in hand.

In moments
like these
things move slow,
because you
don't just ask
a guy
to kill someone
all at once.

Undone

I took it
out again,
set it up
on an easel,
sure that
I wanted to
finish like so
many other
times.

I started it
long ago,
the citrus tones
and asian style
reminded me
how deeply
I had felt.

Shadow Man
and his guitar,
the beauty
of the
Willow World,
silent and in
pain, the two
of them
unsure how to
carry on.

The layers of
painted over
versions of them
would tell
the real tale
if
they could.

At first
they had looked
and longed
for each other
across canvas,
maybe he
more
than her
but still...

Then hurt,
Shadow began
to leave,
and the geisha
watched
sad,
unable to be his,
a tear
as she watched
him go.

Later,
she is painted
in white-
in mourning-
but her
back is turned
to him. She looks
back at the
castle
where she lives
as royalty,
he climbs
the same hill,
his progress
slow
and unsteady.

I would that
I could finish it,
I am unable.

I get it out
and set it
on easel
again,
on this day
you are wed,
and I look
at it.

I look at
you

I look at
me

at the way
I would have
things be,
and I wish
I could have
been more
graceful
in the letting go,
I lay aside
my brush
but I leave
the painting.

It remains undone,
but I will never finish
and it will always remain.

Maybe Better

The second
time I saw her
she walked
into my room
and saw
the mattress
on the floor
and said Jesus
Christ
you still live
like a hobo.

She threw
down
a canvas
messenger
bag filled with
protest pamphlets,
and porn from
Holland and
poems by
Baudelaire

then kicked
off her shoes,
Tom's,
and pulled
a shapeless
cotton dress
up and over
her head
and slipped
into bed next
to me.

Twenty and three
my junior
her skin was
cream and goodness
her hair
the color of
an Irish girl
named Maggie's,
her eyes of green
had already
given up
tears.

Do you have a drink?
she asked
and I passed
her what I had.
I am not
like the others,
she said,
not sad
or lonely

I am a writer,
a poet,

like you,
but better.
It was the closest
I had been to loving
in a long time.

We wrote a hell
of a story
before she
moved on.
She was a writer
and maybe
a little broken,

like me,
maybe better.

Origami

I watched him
from outside,
some place
that was foreign

far

but afforded
scrutiny.

Around the
world,
scurrying
from places
darker than
Hamelin
and sadder than
Hank's holiday
trees,

than Plath's
Bell Jar-
they reached out.

And having
no
less power
than
to take on
their pain,
he folded
the sadness-

the childhood
sufferings,
the cold love
neglect,
the late night
dates
with broken
open razors-

he took it
in his hands,
and creasing
and shaping
turned them
into
little works
of art.

A crane, a butterfly, a dragon.

Folded despair
and the past and slipped it
into his own breast pocket
and kept it there.

From where I stood
outside of that world
I could not say that
he changed them

but even I could
see
how sexy the relief.

Burn For You

I get them
mixed-up,
confuse
dinosaurs
for dragons,

dragons
for dirty
white girls
in tank tops
rolling
drop tops,

and them
for the
devil

but only
after.

I come from
pitch night
terror
and troubles
that trump
tender tendrils
of goodness
and god

but I would
burn the world
down
just to give
you a bucket
of ashes

if that
is what
you want.

I would throw
old people,
the handicapped,
aside in
burning
stacked-brick
building
to save you ,

I would
smother
the breath
of your lover
if you
nodded and
told me to...

I would commit murder,
treason,
and heresy,

blasphemy.

Anathema?
I will be that
and more

I would slap
at angels like
mosquitoes and
kick deities
in the ass
like mouthy
cowards afraid
of what I might
do.

I would fly
into fiery fate
with you,

if you would but choose.

I would fight God
for you

and lose.

Alone

The best
conversation
he ever had
was
through the glass
with his
celly's wife
because that dude
was solid
and felt bad
for anybody
with
no family
or friends.
His days
went
uninterrupted
by television,
or vocation.
His nights
uncorrupted
by pillow
or wife.
He kept
company instead
with a ballet
of words on
the page,
a symphony
of syntax.

Days he
spent with
masters-
Carver, Ciardi,
Carruth.
Nights,
his own demons,
dark muses
and booze.
These days it
seems
like everybody
knows him,
the parties,
the readings,
the girls.
Snarky banter
with sculptors
and shared
eye rolls
with pompous film makers
and bitches
from CNN.
These days
it all seems
like bullshit.
These days
are for feeling
alone.

Mama said there ain't no poetry.

In my childhood
the poets were thick
as mosquitoes
clouding around
a screen door
after someone
failed to turn out
the porch light,

children played
ignorant of prejudice
and division because
everyone was
the same color
where I
come from.

We didn't know
the difference
between Methodists
and Baptists,
there were
no other gods yet,
We hadn't learned
to hate.

The old women
loved us all
with pretties and
sweets,
and young folks
still fell in love.

When I was
a kid
the cotton patches
seemed endless
and Little Rock
was huge,
my entire world
was Mama and Dad,
three sisters,
two brothers
and me.

My mother
eventually told
me.

And television.

The books I read
under covers
and darkness.

Folks out there
shouted nigger
and queer-
they tore down one
another
hoping to
lift themselves up,

Mama said
there ain't
no poetry
in that.

Attrition

I come
from a
proud family,
we
are readers
of books.
We mowed
the grass
short
and took baths
regular
and always
on Saturday
night.
We ate around
the same table,
ground beef
dishes,
and vegetables
from the
garden.
Wonderbread
stacked neatly
on a saucer.
Mom and Dad
both worked
and my
sisters learned
mothering
early,
my brothers
were quick
to jobs.
I was tempted
young
by a 30 unit
muse
with a dirty
southern drawl.
I did bad shit.
Mostly
I'm proud
I lived
through it.

Sweet

Showers
and screwing
are the biggest
distractions
but I don't
miss laying
down never-enough
layers on
August asphalt,
making my
bed in Sheol,
soaking wet
with sweat,
hotter
than hell.
I don't miss
the loneliness
of crowded
sidewalks, and
the invisibility
of the tragically
poor.
I don't miss
standing outside
the Robinson
hoping for
cast-off butts
and loose change
but dreaming
of a seat
near the feet
of a beautiful
cellist making
love with life
and sound,
pulling tears
followed by
laughter
from deep within
who I am,
really.
I will not
miss the sadness
of cast away
family the
fifth or sixth
day of the
month,
check smoked up-
left for us,
the most broken,
to take care of.
We can't
care for ourselves.
I don't miss
letting my mama
down.
Letting you down.
Letting everyone down
for so long.
I won't miss
a chance to
say so.

Bitter

I miss
shuckin' and
jivin' on
street corners,
2 a.m.,
and the bravado
that comes
with pin prick
highs and
self- destruction
cocktails.
I miss the
other-worldly
beauty, and the
out of focus
of being stoned.
The muted tones
and colors,
the edges
of everything
soft.
I miss the
romance
of a broken heart
with none of
it's pain.
I miss the whoop
of downtown
cruisers and
friendly cops
shouting move
along then
hanging out to talk
a minute, just
a couple of guys.
I miss
cowboy mornings
and steam rising
from a snow
covered bedroll
as I wake
near rivers edge
then hot/bitter
coffee and grits
with the rest
of the tramps
at the Sally.

Book by the Cover

Her name was Cheyenne
and she was

a ten times
cooler than me

a hundred years
younger and

thousands of miles
away in L.A.

but I guess she
used to live here

and knew all the
hippest cats

the ones I thought
might dig my shit.

She took the
coolest selfies,

and was damn near
the frog tape girl.

I watched her live
in social media

like people watched
"Friends" in the nineties,

Cheyenne took
the best selfies,

Think I'll use for
the cover of a book.

Still

Mom used to
step on
the chocolate
milk.

She would
every once
in a great while
buy a
half a gallon
of store brand
chocolate
milk-

no bunnies
or zany cowboy
logos at
extra cost-

then she'd
refill the gallon
of "white"
milk, pour
the sweet treat
over a half
gallon plain
making it
less rich.
No less tasty.

Mama had 6 kids,
watched nickels
and dimes.

She stepped on
the milk but
I never got
used to it
any other way.

I drink it
that way
still.

Prayer

I don't believe
in god
but I'd really
like to,
and I often get
a sort of
magic feeling
at sun-up
if I'm alive
and sober,
so damn
reassuring
still.

I try not to
worry
about if
there is or
if
there ain't,
but it pisses me
off - if you're
the daddy why
then so many
hungry
crying kids.
Worse.

My Granny
loved Jesus
and I reckon
most everybody
else
but he don't
make them like
her
anymore and if
he were real,
he
would.

I can't believe

in believe

in heaven but
it's been hell on
Earth since I
strayed from
Daddy's preachin'
and that heavy
leather
book.

I don't believe
in nothing but
I don't mind
my momma
praying
so long as it makes
her feel good,
she prays for me
and it don't
hurt
none.

Phone Call With Ma After A Nice Reading of Women Poets

No Ma-

not like

Danny Thomas,

that's not

what I said,

anyway 

the point is

I always 

thought

she hated me

and she's

like,

such a

great poet.

No, I never

met her

I am just always

afraid that-

in my poetry,

I come off

as a misogynist,

Yeah Ma,

sure I guess

you could say 

that - I guess

you could say

I dabble in 

misogyny but

I am not

even sure

I know what 

that means.

Okay Ma

whatever

uh huh

love you too, 

call you 

tomorrow.

City Weeds

A cotton haired black man limps
down the alley singing
a Cuban love song
so beautiful it belies
his disheveled appearance.

The pigeons at dusk,
chant the same mantra
as the night before and all
of the nights to come-
oh no, oh no, oh  no.

Shiny new cars whoosh
down damp side streets
with no sense of remorse
for dying days events;
still they flee.

Misfits, and the wretched
and the tragically hopeful
spring from cracks in the sidewalks
and from the shadows
among sparse city weeds.

It is the magic hour.
Out of town soft touches
and Tough Willie booze,
and the big lick good fix
is just out of reach.

It is the time of day that writes itself.
Karma's clock- between tick and tock
between malice and melancholy
when Angels and Demons
call truce. Sublime.

For the cement spawned weeds
it's the only thing that is real.
And darkness cools-
and for the weeds of sidewalks
it is the only thing that is real.

Tetelestai

Why?,
my gut shouts
but
my eyes
can barely
whisper
how fucked
I feel,
and she is
all shoulders
shrugged
and cliches and
I hate
how much
I love her
right now.

I am left hanging
in pain,
a man
crucified,
a whining-spirit
martyr,

and worse I know
I will
rest in it.

Slumping down
hanging on
my arms
empty of you,
then
pushing
off feet
nailed in place
by selfish sadness,

overly anxious
to run to you,
a moment's relief.

I am convicted.
I am pierced.
I would die for you.

You will not have me.

it is finished.

Clearly and with a little ice.

If I could
write
in the hand of
Baudelaire, the
beautiful Alexandra
might
love me.

If I could
even pretend
to pen an
ode
then I would
write one
for the passing
away of
a creaking
wooden bridge
named Bono.

A real bridge
not the U2 guy.

If the sun
keeps on
shining,
I may write
a poem and

clear my head.

If I could
think clear

even for a moment

I would know
I needed
another drink,

with a little ice.

Anymore

I was in rehab
with this Bama
chick once,
not the one
I married.

She cried
great tears
while she prayed
I remember
believing she
could have
washed Christ's
feet.

Her old man
had shot her,
twelve gauge,
long time ago.

She remembered
that
he cried for her,
offered her
a smoke.

She killed him later.

Run off from rehab
with a dare devil guy,
rode motorcycles,
I heard he
beat her ass.

I don't believe
in as much
anymore.

A Rollie Upon Waking

That morning
sitting up
in a never-made
bed, and
rolling a cigarette-
its ends
unkempt with
brown-golden
tobacco
and loose bits
all in his lap-

he thought
of her.
He no longer
gave
a damn.

He thought that
ends of his
rollie looked
like an old man

like him

with hair growing
from his ears,

he thought
of her
and wrote
a poem

because

he no longer
gave
a damn.

T.V. Dinners with Dad

When

I was a kid

my dad 

would

sometimes look

over at me 

and say 

Point the antennae at Memphis,

and I would 

go outside and 

wonder


which way Memphis was,

and I would 

twist

the aluminum pole.


After a moment

he would shout,

Okay

and I would 

come back in 

and watch T.V.

with him,

enjoying 

my Salisbury steak. 

I Wanted to Love Her

I was sadder
than a belly up
gold fish floating
in a bowl
on a ten year old
girls dresser
next to an empty
hamster cage.

Over green-eyed
girls, and 80's T.V.
starlets out West.

Over barefoot
beauties cooking
spaghetti and a
wine tipping chick
from a hippy church
with a little boy
who seemed
my own.

Set up by a broad
that ran a gypsy
bistro we had
started to chat.
Here's the deal,
she said
I danced for
thirteen years

Relief or
something like
it washed
over me and
I smiled
a crooked grin.
Hell I was 
married to a 
hooker. 

After letting
our guards down
we talked of
silly things,
and drank deeply-
drunk on
the hope of
better days.

We shared melancholy
and music,

Mrs. Beasley and
Mr. French.

God knows she was
older than the girls
from before but
just as beautiful.

She was beautifully sad,
and I wanted to love her.

Busted Up Heart Affairs

So, sitting

at the keyboard
when the thought
comes to me.

Scratching
a great scar,
it was five.

Five bypasses
and a valve repair.
All worth it.

Felicia came
and held
my hand.

And Sally
smiled and won
my mother.

Kara brought tacos,
laid down
in my bed,

we talked of lumps,
and heart attacks
and being lousy at love.

I barely remember
Lynne, but she is
an angel.

It came to
me later, sitting
to write.

I was no
more down with
dying

than some
long ago prophet,
my father's book.

I still loved
too many, so many
I'd loved before.

Sitting down
at my keyboard I
wanted to live.

I knew it
would be my
heart though,

would get me one day.

Together Back Out the Door

My life
was a coffee stain
on the living
room carpet
just inside
the front door,
but you were
fresh laundered
bed sheets
sprinkled
with baby powder.

I was pinch
your nose and
take your medicine,
you were
coffee and beignets
at the Cafe Du Monde
on a sexy
sultry morning
and knowing looks
across the table.

I stayed in
and read books
you danced
in flimsy silk
nothings
in the summer
rain
urging me along.

Together
we were stifled
moaning
in the coat room
at a strangers
New Years Eve
party
and laughter
as we
slipped back
out the door.

Back

Sometimes I
dream
forward but
mostly
go back

and it is
always cold
sweat and
silent screams
that wake
me.

My whole
life
can be
summed up
with a
cheap trick
and a smart-ass
one-liner.

I only seek
what anyone
would,
if they were
honest
with themselves -

an honorable death.

But I
cannot recall
the texture
of honor.

She always stayed.

Some days listening
to upbeat hillbilly tunes
he'd smile a wrinkled grin
and be dumb
at how sprung she had
made him,
but then the smile
remained,
and he remembered
how damn good
she had made him feel
on better days.

He would think of the others:
the lesbians, and the catfish,
the ones with ten perfect toes
and how none could live up
to faded freckles on her nose,

and he would smile
some more and go back
to her.

Remembering late
night poetry
on glowing cell phone screen

and later how he had thought
he might die pining
as pathetic as a teen.

He would smile and put her away,
to enjoy another day.
Again and forever
just like she had always stayed.

For Sally Graham

She had a face
that said golden,
southern girl,
and eyes
that smiled
at how much
smarter
she was
than the rest
of the world
though she
would never
say it.

It would never
pass her
cherubic lips.

I can imagine
that she might
weep at
renaissance paintings
but doubt
that a mortal man
could cause the same.

Gemini's daughter
captures me
in a spell
then releases me
just as quickly
and laughs,
and I am forced
to laugh with her,
her charm is such.

Having conquered
stage and small screen,
the tallest of Gotham,
and been courted
by Kings
on faraway continents,
who am I
to love her.

Someday maybe,
though,
I will try.