Coming Down

I am here,

here in the house with the lopsided floors

and the crooked roof

listening

to the whistle of the train

and the hum of my hard drive.

It is raining outside,

coming down

in quiet drops,

somewhere between a mist

and something grander.

This morning I got out of bed

in a haze,

a Benzo haze,

dragged myself to the kitchen

and made oatmeal

with blueberries and molasses.

I nearly burned it.

I am out of practice,

used to letting my lover do all the cooking.

Now, I cook and clean

and wish I had never gone to New York,

as if wishing could change anything.

Day After Day

What are we doing here?

Here on this planet?

Marking time with our jobs

and our bills and our trivial pursuits.

Working out,

being more,

doing more,

and for what?

We stuff ourselves

with food, and language

and books,

and try to pretend that any of it matters.

I do not know what any of it means,

anymore.

What are we supposed to want?

A new car?

A new house?

Another pair of shoes we can put in our closet

or under our bed?

Recognition?

What are we doing here?

Does anybody know?

I asked the man on the corner,

the man with the bottle in his hand.

The man who drinks everyday

and has urine on his pants.

He didn’t know.

I asked the man in the office

on the thirty-ninth floor.

The one in the Armani suit

and the lizard briefcase

and black BMW.

The one who fucks his wife on Friday

and his mistress on Sunday.

He didn’t know either,

although he thought he did.

What are we doing here?

What are we doing here?

Getting old?

Getting fat?

Marking days off the calendar

with a red ink pen.

It’s all the same day

after day.

It makes no difference.

It makes no difference.

In Search of God

I am the night,

a virgin,

turning back the clock

hoping to find God

before it’s too late.

I have made a vocation of it.

Sitting at bus stops,

waiting in trains,

always searching

for what I once knew so easily.

Across the hall,

the music plays

a symphony to my bones.

But where is he?

Chasing kites?

Or dragging s stick along the shore,

leaving a trailed message in the sand

no one can decipher?

Perhaps he is in the trees,

changing leaves from green to gold

or bruising squirrels with acorns.

I do not know.

Tell me anything.

It is virtually guaranteed,

I will soon forget.

The Chickens Of San Martino Spino

It is still a mess

outside.

The jackhammers.

My files.

The digital roar

of words,

makes me

anxious.

I long for Italy.

Gelato on a cone,

and the chickens of San Martino Spino.

They sat in the grass

pecking and clawing,

immune to the world

around them.

Rusty-brown bodies,

producing perfectly tan colored eggs,

that when cracked,

revealed

a brilliant orange yolk inside,

and tasted like no other I have ever eaten.

Rich as cream,

as if the sun had settled in my mouth

and I had swallowed it whole.

How good it all was then,

before the gallbladders

and sores.

Running from town to town.

me and my guitar,

The taste of pesto on my lips.

Hiding beneath blankets in October,

and longing for November,

when the heat would come on.

I can hear their clucking now.

Endless Blue Sun

My tongue is rough and sore

as if I had taken it out

of my mouth and run it 

on a dusty road for miles.

I can see it

flopping along

like some headless worm

directionless

and blind,

panicked,

as to where to turn.

No water in sight.

Just the sun,

the endless blue

sun.

Somewhere,

there must be water.

My tongue keeps running

from road to road

and town to town

looking for shade,

looking.

But there is nothing

but dust

for my tongue to swallow

and still my tongue
keeps running.

A New Poem for 2014

A new poem

sits at my door

like my Christmas tree.

Naked.

It’s branches

drooping from being cooped up

in the heat of the house for the past three weeks.

Stripped of its ornaments and lights. 

Now, alone, 

out on my front porch

like a dog 

sentenced 

to it’s room

without ever knowing what offense

it has committed.

I sit

inside,

a greedy urchin,

watching the tree

that gave its life for my merriment,

still wanting more.  

What now 

little one?

Now that Christmas has passed

and the New Year has been ushered in?

What will you become?

Mulch beneath our feet

at Radnor Park.

Your perfume

wafting through our noses,

still giving 

of yourself

even

in 
death.

Who Loves The Sun

The lump on my neck is getting smaller.

The doctor shot it with cortisone

last week.

Well, he didn’t shoot it,

his nurse did.

Now, when I reach up

to touch it, it feels more like a pea,

than the dime it used to feel like.

I don’t know why I get these lumps,

or red dots, or scales.

Maybe it's because my mother had them.

I remember watching her sit in the dermatologist’s

office in Houston, getting things frozen

and burned off and thinking how weird 

all of those little things on her body were.

Now, they are mine.  

We have the same skin.

It’s pale and thin and doesn’t like the sun

and it wrinkles more than it should.

I have my mother's skin

and I don’t like it one bit.

See Ya Later, Alligator

Sitting at the table

with Bobby Charles

I could dream

a bit longer.

The bread pudding

thick in my veins,

the rum sauce,

a heroin

of sorts

making its way

straight for my brain.

Abbeville,

fried alligator

and catfish,

fighting in my stomach,

keeping time to a slow slow

drip of gravy

running down my legs

as I sopped up his every word.

This man,

broken and battered

as the fish on his plate.

A loner.

A fixture,

at table twenty three

day after

day.

Looking out on the restaurant,

holding court with the waitresses,

who pocketed his big wad of money

by the fistful

and brought him gin after gin.

Heart disease wouldn’t dare clog his veins,

not Bobby’s.

He sat,

fat

pouring over the sides

of his chair.

What life had taken from him

was long gone.

See ya later,

alligator.

Here Goes, Jack

O.k.

So here goes,

Jack.

I know you’ve heard it before

and I’m sorry.

Really I am.

But I have to,

you see.

I have to

just one more time.

Now,

don’t try and stop me

because it’s coming,

it’s squirting out of me like

a grapefruit,

all fleshy and sweet

and juicy.

And that spoon,

the one with the jagged edges

is digging it out of me.

There’s nothing I can do to stop it,

even if I wanted to.

But I don’t want to.

It’s gonna come.

Make no mistake.

It’s coming.

And when it does come,

it will be bigger than anything

that’s ever come before.

O.k.

Get ready.

AHHHH!

There.

You see.

There,

on the ground.

Writhing and wriggling,

and shaking

all perfectly jelly-like.

It’s out.

Out in the open now.

Right there.

Right in the middle of the room

ready for everyone to see.

There’s no mistaking it.

You can’t look away.

It’s right there.

And I’m not taking it back.

No way.

No how.

I’ve held it in long enough

and I’m not going to hold it in any longer.

It’s staying.

Right where it is.

It’s your turn now.

Or yours.

Or yours.

It doesn’t matter to me

because

I’m free of it.

I’m done.

I told you.

I told you it was coming.

 

Out Catching Flies

She is out catching flies,

out in the garden,

away from the mustard yellow walls

and polyester bedspreads with the little red flowers,

away from the pull cords

and dark-skinned women with thick

Brooklyn accents.

She is watching the water

fall,

pool up and fall

across the cracked cement

she is not allowed to walk upon.

She is out catching flies

catching them one by one

in her hands

grasping at air,

swatting the invisible,

seeing what nobody else

can

see.

At night,

she will bring her bounty to her room

and put them in a sealed glass jar.

She will watch them climb the glass walls

over and over

only to slide back down to the bottom.

She will watch them do this

until they are too tired to try anymore.

Then,

she will watch them 

suffocate

and 

die. 

Time

It is a strange sort of thing,

time.

Moving in waves,

forward and back,

picking up steam

in one moment,

lifeless,

and crawling

in the next. 

A stranger deep in song.

Measured by wet roads

and branches,

pinecones and snow,

birthdays

and Christmases,

and the tarnishing of rings.

A possessor of sounds past

and destroyer of innocence with deeds.

A friend bathing in water.

A mirror left hanging

in the doorway

we are too frightened 

to look into anymore. 

August

The knowledge of August

resists the senses,

resists the crystal flakes

of snow

that wait in the sky

yet to be discovered.

How wrong it is to gaze

upon summer

and long for another season.

A chill.

A meditation in moonlight

reflecting nothing.

A building in the wind

full of nakedness.

Raincoats left behind,

drying ever so slowly.

I hear the insects come

thirsty

for new flesh. 

And I listen

to the pretty misery

of the toad’s song.

For now,

green is everywhere.

The rest

must wait. 

One At A Time

The wind outside my window

is blowing hard now.

It’s telling me of years past.

In Frat rooms.

On boy’s beds.

Hands on thighs.

Lips on necks.

Danger in flannel.

Spread into positions

I shouldn’t be in.

I remember,

vaguely,

that night.

His hand over my mouth.

Six feet off the ground.

Held captive in a bunkbed.

The sound of music

on the other side.

People dancing

unaware.

My own screams,

muffled.

The smell of gin on his breath.

His promises.

My buttons undone

one 

at 

a 

time.

Red Dolls In Heat

From the 4^th to the 5^th

and back on the 10^th.

Moving days like chess

pieces

to accommodate outcomes.

None of them good.

My back against the wall

like so many

red cardinals.

Four days is too short.

Five days is too long.

I suffer the consequences

of snoring,

bad beds,

and hotel doors

slamming

all hours of the night.

How many times I have gone

only to arrive

and learn

I am unneeded,

unwanted.

Perhaps I could survive better

half-filled.

Ears stuffed with the music

of others.

Red dolls

in heat.

Strums of disconnect

in minor.

A fury of beats

drumming out

the voices in my head.

Yes.

It will be a waste.

It is always a waste.

And still,

I go. 

Nervous Kitty

I knew the green tea

was a bad idea.

Like licking wallpaper,

or pulling my eyebrows out

two at a time.

I am too nervous already.
Too ready to jump

like the cat

who sleeps beneath

the shed in my backyard.

But I did it anyway.

I drank it after noon.

I drank it knowing my mother

was going to the hospital

and I was going to have to wait

for my sister’s call.

I have been through this before.

The I.V.’s.

The blood draws.

The X-rays to see

what is wrong.

The two green lights blinking.

My mother confident

she will die if one of them goes off.

Barking dogs.

The sundowning.

The yells and restraints.

The biting of tongues

and arms

and residents.

The shaking of heads,

and endless marveling

at the strength of one

so small.

I am biting my nails now.

Waiting.

Always waiting. 

The Phone Call

It often starts so benign.

The distant acknowledgment.

The casual pleasantries expressed.

The daily chores expounded.

Groceries, and laundry.

and trips to the store.

Talking to her

is like talking to floral wallpaper.

The surface so sweet

you can almost smell the gardenias.

But once peeled back,

the walls expose a toxic glue

on the other side.

The turn,

the change in timbre,

a subtle shift when

all becomes clear.

Gone are the days of laughing and swings.

Racing against one another.

Each one set on out doing the other,

in innocent rivalry.

Now,

there is just one desire-

to pull the other down.

 

Shadow figures

There is a fence

separating

us from them.

A wooden dog-eared fence with slats

allowing

breath and restricted view.

Half-faces,

eyes and hands,

dark bodies,

dismembered.

Abstract paintings of figures

unknown.

Kept out.

Each one never fully understanding

the other.

Shadow figures

running past.

Their voices loud with beer

late into the night.

Our heads

aloft on white pillows

safe asleep

on the other side. 

The Safety of Flesh

I feel sorry for you

wrapped tight

in his arms

fighting to find your way out.

You, who know sorrow

better than the rest of us.

You, who drink tears

without end.

You will never know

what they know.

Feel what they feel.

Arms wrapped tight around you

for love

and only for love.

The safety of flesh.

Voices whispered in your ear

of train rides

and balloons.

A hand to hold

in the night

when the nightmares come

and the trees bang against the windows

begging to come in.

A hand bigger than yours

to wipe away your tears

and leave you

laughing.

Twenty Seven Across

What isn’t there

is the sound of metal on metal.

Coins falling into silver trays,

scooped up into plastic buckets,

and carried down carpeted hallways

like found pirate treasure.

The excitement of counting,

one quarter at a time.

Hands on black handles.

Cheers rising into the air,

then dissipating leaving only the sound

of spinning and clicking.

What isn’t there

is women in sequins and boas.

Men in dinner jackets.

And the illusion of glamour.

What isn’t there

is my father,

standing at the crap table,

throwing hard on the come out,

then soft,

as he tried to “make” his number.

My father saying, “Twenty seven across,”

to the croupier,

then doubling up and up

till he either made a fortune

or they took it all away.

My father,

wearing his lucky red flocked paisley gambling jacket,

the one he was photographed in during

most of my childhood.

My father,

throwing for hours at the table,

thighs chaffed from rubbing together,

surrounded by crowds

who marveled at his fearlessness,

his technique,

his stacks of chips on the table,

growing higher and higher.

My father,

at the black jack table,

a bigger draw than any celebrity filming at the same time

in the same room.

My father,

who for over a decade,

was treated as a kind of royalty in Vegas,

and we, by association,

an extension of that royalty.

The First Family of craps.

Our every move eyed by pit bosses

who knew what we spent.

Knew my father by his first and last name.

Knew everything we wanted,

and gave us everything.

Free hotel rooms.

Free meals at the finest restaurants.

Free buffets. 

Tickets to the hottest shows.

Ringside seats for

Elvis and Diana Ross and The Supremes.

Shows my father would invariably walk out on

after just one song,

leaving my mother to sing, “Hound Dog,”

all by herself,

while he went back to the dice table,

to try his luck

one more time.

My father.

My all-powerful father.

On Sunday,

I was in Vegas again

for a wedding.

I hadn’t been there in over twenty-five years.

Whatever magic Vegas held for me as a kid

disappeared with the removal of the coin slot machines

and my father’s red gambling jacket.

Now, when I walked through the casino,

all I saw was one soulless person after another.

Desperate people and stupid tourists.

Not one of them knew how to play black jack

or how to twenty-seven across,

like he did.

Everything I loved about Vegas is gone.

Now, it’s just one lousy overpriced buffet after another. 

Leonard

Perhaps Leonard can bring me out of it.

Visit me with stories of orange and green,

flowers on the walls,

and pictures of children

with sad, lopsided faces.

A church on the hill,

empty and forgotten,

ringing its bell,

assuring me that

I am

still

here.

Perhaps he could hold my hand

and sing to me

in his deep

New-York-City voice.

Urge me out among the broken glass

and condoms,

and into that dark Chinatown restaurant

with the soup dumplings.

He’s done it before.

Taken me.

Pushed me into beauty

I never knew existed.

Made me feel,

with the flick of a poet’s tongue.

If only the needle

were near me now.

I would set him loose

upon me.