Tattooed Woman


Gotta love a tattooed woman.
A fierce sense of style,
A boldness in presentation.
Crimson red knives on arms,
Vibrant colored tiger on calf.
The rest is private viewing.
It's her way or no way
And I like her every way

Let It Be

We sang along with
'Let It Be' every time
we heard the Top 40
Count Down Play Back
Power Hours as if
our lives depended
on remembering all
the words and how we
sounded singing them
and maybe, somehow,
our survival was linked
to world powers no one
would ever completely
understand like the words
of wisdom that made no
more sense than who
would live and who
would lie alone,
screaming, in a muddy
foxhole, in this unreal
world that just would
not let us be.

My 48th Birthday     
 
the wife and I go to a concert
Fitz and the Tantrums opening for O.A.R
at a little outdoor venue in downtown Pittsburgh
a man and woman     mid-thirties I’d guess
stand in front of us     both wearing ear plugs
fucking lame     but probably smart
Fitz is belting out their poppy rock tunes
my head is bobbing     toes tapping
lips in motion with the words but little sound escapes
the girl in front of us
arms crossed     a little grin     slight movement
her companion
arms flailing     legs kicking     no regard
or rhythm     possessed movement
my wife side-eyes me     and I smirk
no signs of inebriation
no signs of awareness of other’s eyes
this motherfucker is crazy
28-year-old me would’ve been laughing
judging his ridiculousness
48-year-old me          is chuckling
but loves it
I stand here     afraid to move too much
as if cool fucking matters
I pretend not to give a shit     of other’s thoughts
     The easiest lie to tell
          Is the one we tell ourselves
midway through the set     the woman leaves
and never returns     he never stops dancing
never a look of     ‘wonder where she went?’
     just keeps on keeping on
my wife is concerned     that it was a date
and the woman abandoned him     she’s concerned
that maybe there’s something wrong with him
          (maybe)
I don’t feel bad for him
I don’t want to judge him     besmirch him
I wanna fucking be him

 

Five middle-aged dudes in line at Punk’s Ice Cream Parlor
 
at 4:30 in the afternoon
on a Tuesday
spread out evenly
Not together
No wives
No children
each fitting a type
Biker   Construction Worker
Camo-clad Outdoorsman
Coach Dad     Gym Rat
Village People-Esque
if they weren’t apparently strangers
 
and me
dumbfounded
driving by at 45mph
after work
sucking on
a banana split Dum Dum lollipop
trying to decide
if I like it

Cracker Jack Box Poem

 
I don’t wind my pocket watch these days.
It ticks off my age—seventy-eight, nearly more.
I’m an antique gadget, time suspended—like a loose tooth.
It cogs and springs out of sync—
refusing to catch, refusing to move forward.
I shy away from thoughts of endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box, emptied of prizes,
replaced by a blinking digital clock—
No secret toy inside—only a sunken rattle.
And when it stops, there’s no clapping—pure silence.

I wait through longing seasons.
I am hoping for your return.

Feelings Get Delivered

This morning, a meteor streaked through
the sky over Western New York

at the same time I was using my tongue
to peel tattoos off someone's ribs.

I've learned over the years that you must
love your little life, but fill it with experiences

that make it seem bigger than it actually is
like a baby bird that has fallen from its tree

facing the shadow of an Amazon truck.



Radical Acceptance

As the moon paints herself blue
I’m staring at the people
I would've slept with years ago
sprawled out in the parkway
building tiny skylines with sugar cubes.

Imagine desire as a wild horse with three legs.
Then, stop. The less you wonder how it still gallops
along the horizon despite everything, the better.

Eventually, you just get tired of finding things
to cover up your scars, so I keep walking.

In front of the jungle-themed dispensary, an old queen
points at his tiny dog yapping at the wind
and asks me, “Isn't this what happiness is all about?”

I am left with no choice but to agree.

Give In


In a world with no meaning,
you have to fix yourself to a dream.
Become a scarf,
ends blowing in the wind,
an accouterment,
an accessory to facts
that can’t be believed.

Commit yourself
to the insanity
of what you need there to be,
so you can survive
as long as possible
in this place,
and possibly in eternity.

Give in. Give in
to a better sense
of confusion.
Give in. Give in
to a better sense
of it all.

that old number


Pinpricked, the hard dark, 
carved rough by my 
scalpel of light 

I take another slow drag,
canonizing slow the night. 

We conspire, like old lovers. 
In mutual lies we drowse.
Caresses fall in stark drawl
measured by their forced sighs. 

I finish my soliloquy—ever the actor—
as her words, leaden prayers, they fall:

‘This was the prevention hotline,’
     		      she replies.
‘We thank you 
for your call.’ 

Family Lore

My dad’s dad, Zayde Jake, broke his nose long before we ever met. To refer to his nose as “broken” is frankly an understatement. It looked as if it had been flattened, macerated, and then molded into a vaguely biomorphic shape and left to harden. According to family lore, he broke it – or, more exactly, had it splattered across his face – in a street brawl with communist stooges determined to take over the union he had helped organize. Whatever the facts of the case, the truth is he was one tough guy and about as far from a doting grandpa as you could get. He smoked unfiltered cigarettes (Camels) that stained his fingertips yellow. He gambled at cards. He gunned a shot of slivovitz every evening before dinner. Most days he went around unshaved. My mom, who had a bourgeois abhorrence of rough behavior, disliked him immensely. I still remember the bristle-brush feel of his stubble when I kissed him on the cheek.

The Perks of Lockdown

 
During April 2020,
I bought a thousand-dollar mattress

and a wrought iron bed frame
for two hundred bucks

from a couple who ran
an estate sale business
in Bisbee, Arizona.

The bed’s previous owner
had died right before lockdown.

Every store was closed,
and restless shopkeepers
leered from doorways,
hissing like drug dealers.
 
“Psssssst—need some furniture?”

I bought the illusion of normalcy,
a high that lasted only a few minutes.
A tag on my new mattress read,

“Made for active lifestyles”,

meaning recreation,
not fornication.
Not that I was doing
much of either.

 

Self-doubt

 
Creativity is like a clock
That keeps ticking, secretly.

The moment you pause
To look at it
Is to savor it.

When it finds you not working
It must speak to you
In inner monologues
Of your heart.

So, it keeps you on guard.
Let the doubts fly
And your words settle down.
Like the wings
That envelops for warmth.

Experimentation is the science of expression
Self-doubt cuts your wings

You were made to scoop the sky
And taste the cream of the Milky Way,
Creative imagination is the star of the same sky.
It was a wanderer before.