Birthday poem

I can see my age
at the shape of my swollen feet
after a 12 hour shift
in old worker boots with no soles.

I can see my age
at the fact I forget 
It’s my birthday 
and other people 
remind me with 
cliche wishes 
that make texting back 
a hypocritical endeavor.

I can see my age
and I don’t like
where this is going.

I can see my age 
in November 
and nothing good
ever happened to me
in November.

Besides that time 
I went to Berlin
with a woman I loved
but one evening 
tried to shove her bank card
in her mouth in a fit of rage.

I can see my age
in the accumulation
of regrets.

I can see it
and I don’t like
where this is going.

Drug-girl 

Drug-girl rolls past 

in the wheel chair 

pushed endlessly 

down bland white corridors 

she longs to drool 

half smiles at the other patients 

droops her mouth down 

in a saddened  

feel-sorry-for-me way 

to think she could have slid a few pills in 

her hidey hole 

and now this…. 

Mother and father wait 

obsequie statues 

outside the MRI chamber 

free from any potential radio active 

waves that could harm them 

demand to know what’s wrong with 

drug-girl’s brain 

outraged that it has come to this 

drug-girl waits 

stares at the medical supply cabinet 

grey-white faux wood 

some kind of recycled board 

shipped from a third world country name of which 

she could never pronounce 

to end up 

here 

put together so half-assed, the bottom piece already coming detached 

cheap-ass shit 

Drug-girl 

perfectly still 

when asked if she’s ready 

smiles 

with dead eyes 

what kind of music does she want to listen to 

classical 

dumb MRI bitches 

don’t know music 

don’t know drug-girls struggles 

in the morning 

when she’s sitting on the bowl 

leveraging her fate with 

whatever is left in 

the bag 

her goodie bag 

not so good when empty… 

Or drug-girls anger with that hideous supply closet 

the hospital cheaped out on 

Mom and Dad blame the millennial gen 

the deteriorating school system 

they blame each other’s negligent malaise 

over the years 

their distraction away from drug-girl with 

golf 

yoga 

glittery fundraisers 

silicon boobs 

Drug-girl is completely content 

with how it all turned out 

agitated that parents try to 

reflect and 

project the 

would haves – could haves 

she wants a burger she says 

saltie and ketchupy 

like when she was a child 

MRI bitch eyes her 

Yeezys 

David Yurman bracelet that she slides off 

and places into 

Gucci knapsack 

drug-girl throws the 

‘I’ll knife you’ 

stare 

They gingerly 

wheel her 

to recently 

renovated room 1011 

with cushiony walls 

drug-girl coils 

around herself 

stares at 

nothing 

thinks of  

every 

drug 

she didn’t get to 

—–

Today’s a good day for death 

she said this so matter of fact  

as the sun blazed through her flaxen hair 

onto pasty 

sallow skin 

I wasn’t in love with her  

yet I love her still 

the rifts were hard to live with 

bouts of anger  

she hated everyone – including the UPS guy  

for delivering boxes a few feet too far  

from our front door 

I remember those straight-jacket days  

at Creedmor 

her blank stares 

then the death talk started – but that was awhile back 

things had quieted 

A memory drifted in here and there 

never quite got the story 

about her step-dad 

and his brother 

in the trailer 

while her mom drifted in and out of 

realness on a lounge chair 

sipped orange soda and gin 

just under the long rear window 

Maybe she heard everything 

or nothing at all penetrated 

her dream boat high 

but my blonde beauty 

could not get past the trauma 

They say such events can be re-triggered 

randomly 

perhaps the glint of the moon  

through the space 

in the blinds 

reminded her of the 

too quiet nights 

when menace crept 

into places not meant 

The sadness that swam in those baby blues 

eyelashes so long…..what a waste  

sadness is a death in itself 

not enough to kill 

but cloak 

—— 

Hugs & Kisses from the Tide Motor Inn 

I watch my lover walk to the bathroom 

take a piss 

light a cig 

he won’t look  

for a job 

today 

he said he would yesterday 

and the day before 

but 

he’s got the itch 

I accept this 

and lay in bed 

all day 

squandering 

squatting 

in this small motel 

off the side of the bay 

the wondrous bay 

swimmers 

paddle boaters 

fishermen 

come in droves 

pink flamingo floats 

rafts with a cup holder 

for booze 

I see them 

from the window 

what a view 

when the sun 

sets 

blotches of orange  

and cotton candy pink 

spray the bay 

like a nebula 

much more 

intense 

when I am high 

with my lover 

nestled in this 

cave 

with all we need 

go out for 

cigs and food 

when necessary 

watch the seagulls 

dip and glide 

over and over 

listen to the lull 

of the light waves 

—–

Hugs & Kisses from the Tide Motor Inn 

off the beach 

gracefully accept 

his cross 

that I’ve taken on 

such a martyr 

living without a word 

of complaint 

without ever walking 

over to the sand 

to feel it 

under my feet 

naturally soften 

my calluses 

and hardened corns 

sit on the one torn chair 

on this tiny balcony 

wait 

for my lover 

to wake 

try again today 

to kick it 

Page Break 

Vixen 

this blazing Jesus 

cures my terrors 

thaws a frozen heart 

to slush 

I wield power in my thumb 

can de-skank myself 

at any given moment 

pillars of smoke billow 

through slick catacombs 

I travel through 

they are treacherous  

be warned 

find I have twisted myself 

into a knotted 

stiffened bow  

to be unraveled at a later date 

careful boys 

there’s a climb building in these 

burning  

thighs 

Vengeance

Gettin’ liquored up can make ya do crazy things.

Like back in my drinkin’ days carousin’ about.

I ‘member that wild time down in south Texas.

Drinkin’ for days…tequila, rum, whiskey, whatever.

There was a for real hoedown of the lowdown.

My new drinkin’ buddy says to me, “Ese,

That guy over there been fuckin’ your wife.”

Ain’t nothin’ like the menace of a drunkin’ cowboy.

The music stopped, the bar cleared, the only dancin’

Was me poundin’ on that poor son’bitch’s face.

Threw the asshole across a table and bit off an ear.

My amigo passed me a knife, a real pig sticker.

“Time to take you wife a special present, no?”

I cut my victim’s belt ready to jerk his pants down.

I held the blade poised for the slicing off of

The trophy of retribution, vengeance be mine. 

Then, I suddenly remembered, I’m not married.

—–

Sister Sally

Sally had a

Fantastic ass.

She was more a

Mobil home ho

Than trailer trash.

She took no shit

From nobody

And moved with

A marked sense of

Imminent destruction.

Always predator

Never prey.

She could cold-cock

A man with a

Well swung bottle

With her eyes closed.

Those who knew her

Said she had

Really changed

In attitude, outlook,

And demeanor since

She left the convent.

Still, her man, Jeffrey

Spoke well of her

When she had him

In a headlock. 

Autumn’s Menace

A plainclothes policeman, using a pair of handcuffs as brass knuckles, cut the face of a boy who was wandering the city in a hospital gown. The sirens got louder. Windows rattled and the pictures on the walls shook. Sometimes I think it isn’t true that teaching a child to not step on a caterpillar will make you a better person. Sometimes I think the plainclothesman is going to walk through the door, so I just keep waiting. The city streets are deserted – no St. Patrick’s Day parade, no people. In these slow days of unease, everyone is a biohazard.

Doe-Re-Me

I am writing

at the kitchen table,

or, rather,

struggling to,

when my wife

excitedly calls me

to the window

and points down

into the yard

where a doe

with a coat

just a shade

from golden

is browsing

on fallen leaves

that, if it wasn’t

for the hours

I spend trying

to make poems,

I would have

burned long ago.

CRUMBS

In the dark

I feel the crumbs in bed

And start to maniacally try to

Scratch

That one spot on my back

I cannot reach.

Every night

Before I turn out the light

I shake out the bottom sheet

Yet somehow there is always some

Infinitesimal pebble

That manages to get between

My shoulder blades

Seconds after my back

Hits the bed in those first moments

After lights out.

Then I finally calm down

And put my arms around the pillow that

I press close to my body

And put my fingers through my beard

As if petting a sleeping animal

Thinking now that

I finally have a job where

I can grow the beard and keep it

Without a problem

Just like she wanted

And she’s gone –

Leaving me to stroke

And scratch

Myself.

 

Ars poetica as a fry cook named Lars Moetica

Lars Moetica’s father before

He perished from prostate cancer

Always told his malleable son

Son, all you have is your name

Lars Moetica these days can 

Be found in late-night

Commercialized dungeons 

Where corn oil is emperor 

Lars Moetica accepted his

First paycheck as a fatherless

Child, invested in a chest tattoo

All you have is your name

It’s said Lars Moetica is 

On the path to promotion 

Only a scant year after his 

Mustache penciled in 

Lars Moetica is built to last

In the late-night dungeons

And he’ll forever remain

Rail-thin

Lars Moetica takes to his 

Name like a suicidal poet to

Conception pain—the words,

They never come out right 

Lars Moetica will still somehow 

Outlast his tag and still somehow

Float hemispheres & still somehow

Words nibble the relics of words.  

Dr. Richard Alpert (hippies mourn)

It’s a twinkle
light catching
eye
lost between
particle and sky
prism refraction
weaving gently
through
soft folds
in mind’s
satisfaction’s
discontent
that here
used to be now.

My Kevorkian Alter Ego

Please go ahead jump
Put me out of your misery
You don’t have the balls
You’re all talk no devastation
This charade is an overplayed drama.
A boring non event
The only thing that has died
Is my interest
Stop with the Greek Tragedy
Cutting your wrists
Swallowing pills
Attempted O.D.’s
Pathetic cries for help
But no one is listening.
It’s embarrassing to watch
These acts of a coward
A gun in your mouth
a hair trigger nice touch
An electric appliance
in the bathtub
Use a toaster
Makes a great headline
“He’s Toast!”
These are methods sure to end it.
Your slow boat to death
Has run out of rivers
The Heroin Cocaine Oxys the Meth
Condiments used to flavor your depression
So let’s get it over with
Time to make the grand exit.
What makes you think
Anyone gives a fuck
Go ahead and jump
Make a big splash
That’ll show ’em
You don’t give a fuck either.

The Drink

The boat skims out of the cut and bracing,
stops and bobs on the sea.
My brother and I tend the gunnel
like a pub, rods hung over, plopping sotted
yellows by the school. And Dad, with a big one on,
snaps: grab the gaff, Trey. And before me,
Trey snatches the staff off top shelf
and sinks it in the sea. After a slip or two,
Dad guides his quivering grip to hook and hoist
the mack, slapping on deck. The mackerel’s fins hack
the boat and sucks air. It wriggles in
a puddle of its own blood, and Dad, stiff, shakes off
the hook from the fish’s lip, rips the barb from its liver,
and tosses that tippler in a box with the sloshy anonymous.
After the ice box is filled, Dad shoots us straight through to Haulover.
Skimming back into the inlet, the boat braves little waves
as Dad, decked in yellow wet gear, aptly navigates
back to land. Quick hook and loop,
the boat floats, roped to the dock. My brother and I pile
off the ship and ride off; we watch Dad unravel
the rope and putter off, sucking booze like air.

Thames

The city washes up
on its own shore: smooth speckles
of a broken beer bottle
are cradled by the rocks,
while each day the harsh tooth
of its shards is renewed when
the sun briefly emerges.
This same shore, a child chases
a daisy blown in from the park above,
where his parents enumerate
at the edge of a sidewalk,
and the sand salts their shoes,
but that’s not poetry. The chain
that hangs from the docks
may look like a smile, and the rats
might playfully chase one another
beneath the train tracks, but none
of it like the tracks could twist
back to an old Polish man
who holds a pocket-watch
in his palm like an apple.

For the Summer’s End

Scars are the poetry of the skin,
and the hands of Thetis dance on the Styx.
The eggs of a chicken end when breakfast begins.

A couple of words are kicked out like cans of tin
and tassels of thyme unwind behind them.
Scars are the poetry of the skin.

You trip into a bathtub the same size as sin,
and the water brims over the cracked porcelain.
The eggs of a chicken end when breakfast begins.

The white knife and chaos of the water pin
the dagger of Demosthenes on fathers long dead.
Scars are the poetry of the skin.

The bow trembles but cleaves to the violin,
and a baitfish descends on its thicker wire’s end.
Scars are the poetry of the skin;
the eggs of a chicken end when breakfast begins.

Sensitive And Intelligent

I read in a magazine
the other day, where
someone said that
most drug addicts
were simply too
sensitive and too
intelligent to face the
world the way it is.
It’s the discrepancy
between how harsh
and cruel real life is,
and how beautiful they
know it could be that
causes these poor
souls to anaesthetise
themselves with heroin.
Yes ,it sounds good, and
it’s a great excuse, but of
course it’s total bullshit.
I’ve met quite a few
heroin addicts who were
incredibly sensitive, and
intelligent people.
The majority though were
as sensitive as a sledge
hammer, and about as
intelligent too.
Of course, it’s a nice thing
to read if you want to
fool yourself.
We are the best people
at doing that, if we weren’t
we wouldn’t have ended
up as addicts in the first
place.