I went into the bar
to get drunk,
I came out-
a poet.
They followed me
all the way home
trying to get me
to pay the bill.

At night I talk by gravestones…

At night,
I talk by gravestones
stars are their sulfur words-
peculiar, but not mumbled
quieter
than sounds from
the ghosts
of the living.

Cars

I remember smiles in the snow
as paper mache’ midnights
and every car was warmer than home
and before tomorrows phone call to another
I should’ve prayed or toasted yesterday
anyhow
I write this now
and the past is singing a dream in my bones
tap your car
where do the wheels go?

O Andrew
when there was no one
you smiled at me wide
where tomorrows spilled over the edge of our table-
our dreams caught by the waitress
a little booth in a little restaurant
on the edge of a town even littler
we had just gotten there and I was beginning to miss you already
it’s time to get the check
before we go
draw me your eyes
tap your car
where do the wheels go?

and Doug,
a lost night is hovering
it’s out on the deck of your apartment
is it a haze we can have?
could you capture it if you found that forgotten poem of mine
lost in your old books?
does what’s gone somehow go on?
ask the clock on your wall
does what never was remain what it is supposed to be ?
ask destiny it’s hidden in midnight
the long ash is about to fall
tap your car
where do the wheels go?

and Steve,
wanna go to a convenience store?
I think there’s one in the glove compartment
God, I’m sorry.
I’m just tired tonight old friend
what I meant to say is I think there’s some coupons in the glove box
we can grab some food with them
can we make this tonight last ten minutes longer?
can we slow down the coming tomorrow?
actually, I don’t want it to ever come
since we can see its craters are better-
let’s get to the moon
Oh no, I can see the comets
and the stars start to shoot
tap your car
where do the wheels go?

and Jame,
the money should be in at 2am
this lotto ticket dough will only get us so far
here’s our playing cards
shuffle the deck until we go back in time
or maybe to the future
keep all of the jokers wild cause
I don’t laugh with anyone this way
but the worst was when
you started to lift the curtain
of this night to somewhere far away
far away from me
and I feel you in the deepest part of the waters we looked out at
when every word rhymed with forever
I should’ve prayed until my knees hurt that it wouldn’t end
but I didn’t
anyhow
tap your car
where do the wheels go?

and God,
your sun only comes out on sweet mornings after
and I only know these smiles from yours
and God, this poem is all red
red as the sky that all of us waited for
and do you replay these nights in heaven?
these dreamlike nights
these moments gone
these precious faces
I give to you
alone
under this night that has seeped into so many others
alone
though with so many more
with the fuzz of the stars around your hair and all of my tears,
with tomorrow a wave I may never touch,
I ask you as humbly as I can
to tap the cars and tell us
where do the wheels go?

A Rosary tattoo

wraps around

his hand

and wrist

but you’ll never

hear him

mutter

a Hail-Mary

for the sins

the tears

on his face

represent.

He’s known

to take

an eye

for

a dollar

and would rather

serve time

than turn

the other cheek.

Yesterday, Jesus

showed us

his new piece

by shoving

its barrel

in the face

of a junkie

begging

forgiveness.

Someday

Jesus,

Someone

is gonna’ nail

your ass

to a cross.

The dog pulls me. A black leash is wrapped around my wrist, connected to his neck. We walk up & down our alley at designated times of a day. Spots of familiar urinated aromas in weedy edges tug us along to a neighbor’s parked & battered little boat. Named “Purple Haze,” it’s docked on a rusted crib & flats, broken, a thing of the past, useless. The neighbor hoards things. He can’t let things go. He’s even older than I am. I understand. His yard is a disarray of fog rain, tumultuous Erie winters, & weathered clunky sections of automobiles. I peer thru half-dead scrawny pine-branches & the fence’s toothless slats. I see how he lives, alone & insane. Ragweed bends & waves its dispersing, molecular, allergic, yellow fingers. Bangles is too old & arthritic to lift his back leg, so he pisses as he stretches like a black greyhound in the tall brown grass that surrounds the ancient, surely-once-psychedelic, boat. Then we turn around. The other side of the alley where the dog sniffs, contorts, & shits, is all grass. Browned vines weave around chain-link fences of other insane neighbors whose ass-end homes face our back door. Nobody talks to nobody in our neighborhood. We live in heaven.

We cross the alley. “Sit,” the dog instructs.

I sit on an outside chair & smoke. Bangles drops his weight, & pants on some gravel & weeds. Overhead, triangles of electricity section a blue sky. The crows are furious, ear-shattering. Gulls rise as they fly north for Lake Erie.

With my neck rolled onto the back of the chair, I feel a force wake me. I check Raspberry Street left & right for other owners & dogs, as we emerge to the front of our house. Under the wide yew bush, the scent of a black cat. We know that cat well. A real tease.

Bangles looks up at me & declares, “I hate that fucking cat.”

*

Before Becoming a Member

of the Police Force

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kick the door

in, kill everybody. Spray bullets

around the dusty room. Kill them

twice, 3 times. They booby-trap

the women & bottles of wine.

Never feel ashamed. The battlefield

forgives all insane rage. Look, they

have been known to actually EAT

Amerikan infants! They chop our

babies into hot-dog chunks!

Kill them all. They booby-trap the

elderly. They aren’t

us. Kill them. Kill them &

feel good about it. Feel heroic.

*