Heart Sounds

You unbutton most of the buttons of your blouse. The doctor places a cold stethoscope against your chest. He listens in silence to your heart. He listens with his eyes closed. He listens for what soon seems to you an unusually long time. You start to wonder what it is he’s hearing. The dry rattle of old heartaches? The volcanic rumblings of pent-up emotions? The beats your heart skipped last night during the exertions of lovemaking?  The doctor is frowning in concentration as he listens. Whoa, he finally says, there’s a lot going on in there.

Claw

There’s a lump about the size of a marble under the skin of my left palm. I showed it to my brother, a doctor, when he dropped by the house. He felt the lump, pressed it, asked me if it hurt. He said I had something called Dupuytren’s Contracture. As I age, my fingers will contract inwards. Eventually my hand will turn into a kind of useless claw. I won’t be able to put my hand in my pocket anymore or pick up a coffee cup with it or cup her breast. I’ll have to learn to grasp at straws with just one hand.

WATCHING THE DRYER IN THE LAUNDROMAT

I’m accepting of the shirts,  

            the underwear,

that show up in the glass,

            while never asking myself once

            what I think about Twain or Whitman or Goethe

or even pink lips

            and the fumbling of my heart –

instead my eyes dry in tandem,

ears lock onto the motor hum,

and I am losing the point of myself  –

            it was blood and bone

            that separated itself from heaven,

            that leaked over time,

            that set its weaknesses up for cancer –

so why do I spend precious time

watching clothes lose their fluids

in the dryer,

the constant looping –

            I’ve lost my ability

            to be malleable –

                        man with issues

                        morphs into laziness,

                        proceeded by his spine,

                        his spirit –

I’m all pipes with rusted joints,

selling off my copper,

accepting the inevitable,

as round and round and round it goes –

as round and round and round I go.

Contemplating an End 

Euphoria races through the collapsing body 

mountain made of rock from faraway galaxies 

harvest rich with the delights of another dawn 

fibers teased by the gentle finger of infinity. 

Intertwined in a singular embrace 

we watch the shroud of the last aurora borealis  

anxiously awaiting another stage on the journey 

from eons we never knew to a great revelation. 

It will be but a moment of expanding joy 

energy free at last to play never-ending games 

the annihilation feared for centuries yet 

when our frail existence will gleefully vanish. 

As in an act of passionate love with the cosmos 

crushed by the mass of all dimensions 

you and I will lie on a bed invisible to time 

to savor our complete submission to what began. 

One as meant to be within the fibers of eternity 

our stories entangled with all that ever were 

we will delight in the warm oblivion gifted us 

safe within the warmth of the original particle.  

THE TRANSLATION

It roughly translates to I spit on your shadow,

cook your own stinkin’ hamburger,

or cross me off your damn list.

You can basically interpret to fit the situation.

You can also call your doctor

and see if he’ll meet you through zoom

for the pain in your head that means

you either have a tumor or bad memories

that started when you first came out of the womb.

Either way, you’ll probably get through it

for at least another day, which you’ve been

telling yourself is better than nothing,

when you consider the alternative. . .

                 THE REASON

No, I didn’t die on cue and neither did you,

which means we may as well wait it out.

Smile for the camera, and pretend it’s all been

a valuable learning experience

leading to wisdom and a happy ending.

Now I must go and relieve myself of everything inside

so that I can face the crowd. Promise them that their story

will live forever, not only among those of our kind,

but among the lower animals as well, who keep getting smarter,

yet still do most of the dirty work that keeps the rest of us

looking so fresh and new. . .

Begin again 

To start from scratch
is to be alone in a foreign land
amongst strangers—
It’s renting a small room
in a shared house 
with a deposit that almost leaves you penniless 
but as Bukowski once said:
‘ Glad to have the room’.

It’s shitty work
and dissatisfying paychecks—
it’s introducing yourself 
over and over again;
‘ Hey, my name’s -insert name –
nice to meet you’.

It means sleeping on a bed with no sheets,
with your clothes on
using your jacket as a pillow.
It means failing a lot.
Waking up in the middle of the night
mortified, fully aware
you’re hanging from a thread—
a delayed wage away 
from homelessness.

Starting from scratch 
is loneliness—
it’s you at your room’s window
smoking with your arm hanging outside
considering throwing in the towel
instead of stepping in the ring one more day.
Your head under the vicious attack
of either anxious and distressing thoughts 
or good memories that are more haunting 
than anything else.

It’s working in a factory
with matching clothes 
on nights shifts or, 
if you’re lucky,
double shifts,
doing mundane tasks 
and too sad to hit on the Polish girls.

It is a mountainous desperation
enough to make one pray 
but starting from scratch is also
exhilarating under the right light 
of romanticism—
the slave that plots his escape.

You meet new people 
and see new places
and surprise yourself 
with stocks of strength 
you never thought you have
as you take on the dog days 
with the patience of the stoic. 

And when you laugh 
amidst this swamp of grey
you know it’s the laughter 
of the strong.

So hang in there.
Starting from scratch 
means you’re on your way.

I Just Don’t Know

I don’t know what is
wrong with me today.
I suppose it’s just one
of those occasional
down days. We all get
them from time to time.
At least, I know that I do.
Days when the slightest
thing pushes you over the
edge, when the bad, sad
memories come at you
from all directions.
But, the worst thing you
can do is to wallow in your
misery, times like these
call for action. Even if it’s
just going to the shops, to
get yourself a bottle.
The important thing is to
get up and about, it’s harder
to hit a moving target. Also,
the longer you stay lying in
your pity pit, the harder it
is to ever get out, it’s like a
swamp or some sort of
quicksand.
Under your bedclothes seems
the safest place to be, but it’s
exactly where your memories
expect to find you.
So, get out of your pit, and try

to just live, tomorrow is always

another day.

Another chance to put things

right.

Drift

I dreamt the king had died &

Come to life &

Upon a throne of warped records

Kurt Cobain growled 

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me

Tell me where did you sleep

Last night

And up the tar-stitched avenue 

Goethe dished dogeared copies of

Faust & frenzied

Citizenry wailed 

O beautiful for spacious skies

For amber waves of pain

And Cobain rifled out his 

Powder-coated brains &

Heavy rains reminded one of

Fables of invincible Old Glory &

Upon front-door rafts drifted we—

Survivors, naysayers, 

Stayers of stale philosophy—

And a new wet world resurfaced O

So blue, O so green & in my

Prayers I answered the question of 

The bygone musician whose needled

Passion soared always toward

Emptiness between stars:

Last night I slept in the kingdom &

Tonight, I learn to swim. 

Pantoum, or Closet anarchist

The spines are rising on my shelves

And I can’t fathom the eyestrain

Vacuuming complete cooled texts, 

Refrigerated voices sealed between covers

If literature reaps lasting brain

Damage then I’m a pseudo masochist 

And still the stacks swell as engorged lovers

And still my spine pinches toward Earth

This is the trail of a closet anarchist—

Sip your brew and to yourself flex 

Time in which you honor your birth,

Your mother, books who bleach yourselves. 

Something Lacking

As much as I love poetry,
sometimes it feels like
there is something lacking.
I think it’s because I started
off trying to be a songwriter.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew
I was no musician, even before
I had the stroke that paralysed
my left side.
I love writing poetry, and I think
from time to time that I’m pretty
good at it, but sometimes I
can hear the ghost of a tune,
rolling underneath my words.
I can feel when the chord
changes should kick in. When
it should change from a major
to a minor, or vice versa.
I still sometimes strum at my
guitar, just for kicks.
But when I can’t even play the
most basic stuff, it becomes
more frustrating than fun, and
I know to put it away.
I was never good enough
to make it as a rock star, but
still it’s a tantalising thought.
Unfortunately, poets don’t get
rich, famous or groupies.
Unless you were Bukowski,
and I’m not, and I know that I
never will be.

GRACE, OF A KIND

not too many years ago

I wound up at a red light

next to a carload of teenage boys

whose speakers shook the pavement

I caught the eye of one of them

and glared a moment

before rolling up my window–

a useless gesture

when I looked over again

they were all looking back

and, of course, laughing

I held up my middle finger

for a good ten seconds

while they laughed even harder

at my disapproval

the light turned green

they made a left as I went straight

the whole lot of them grinning like fools

and waving bye-bye

I smile now, as I think of those

little bastards

and remember similar incidents

from when I was young

getting drunk 

and singing metal songs all night

as we poured gasoline on our fire 

and the other campers screamed at us

to Shut the hell up!

we laughed

we didn’t care

Go fuck yourselves

if you don’t like it!

we weren’t afraid of shit

it was grace, of a kind

I don’t know 

what else you’d call it

and I don’t know

where it goes, either

—–

THE COST OF A MONTH

I remember how you laughed

on the drive downtown, when I 

almost turned down a one-way

at Sierra, because you were

squeezing my cock through my pants.

You looked good on my arm, though,

that night at the Legacy, 

in your tight jeans and high heels.

I never missed an opportunity

to check our reflection in windows, mirrors.

You dragged me into a club,

insisting I’d have fun.

I don’t dance, I said,

but you said don’t worry,

and after a few drinks,

you danced for us both.

I stood at the bar as you

moved around me 

like I was a pole in a strip club;

swaying, gyrating, grinding,

squatting down on your heels

and coming up slowly,

your hands never leaving me.

And everyone was watching.

There was no NOT watching.

The girlfriends glared

and whispered in their men’s ears:

what a fucking whore!

And the men nodded

as they stole glances,

and adjusted themselves

through their pockets

and I grinned, grinned, grinned.

Of course you turned out to be

just what they said,

and in about a month,

you were tired of me 

and then you were gone,

off to grind on somebody else.

I was about to say 

at least it never cost me 

more than some drinks

and a few dinners…

but that was eight years ago

and I’m still writing about it…

so you tell me.