The Day I Learned About the Vampire Ground-Finch

For the first time in years,
I thought of you —
the velvety notes
of your Thierry Mugler
that both nauseated

and captivated me,
the way your 6'4'' heavy build
pinned me to the wall
while your crew praised

you as a golden god.
After three years with you,   
I discovered that your entire
essence could fit into

the palm of my hand.
I wondered how I allowed
you to overtake me for that long.

Did I choose to ignore

your sharp beak as it first broke
       my skin, the insatiable way you engorged
       on my thin lifeblood

the way your shifty dull eyes gauged
       my tolerance to repeated pecks
       that were somehow indiscernible to me?

The day you decided I was of no use
to you anymore, you spread
your bloated, blackened wings
and pelted dust into my eyes.

I didn't grasp the value
of your absence then.
I do now.

So, what do you do?

My least favorite

conversation starter

Actual question

How do you make money?

Who gives a flying fuck?

When 85% of working humans

hate their jobs

Alternate answers –

So, what do you do?

Stare

at clouds

and hate gravity

So, what do you do?

Hide

unprovoked erections

in my waistband

So, what do you do?

Buy

more books

then I can read

So, what do you do?

Contemplate

the meaning of it all

while riding my lawn mower

around the yard

So, what do you do?

Wipe

until I bleed

self-conscious that I’m not

clean enough down there

So, what do you do?

Watch

light reflect off

shadows twist and fall

So, what do you do?

Write bad poetry.     

M-M-M-M-N-N-N-N
That’s the sound that would often come from my mouth when
I was seven years old,
My tongue flapping like a fish stranded on shore,
Unable to breathe
As I attempted and failed to stammer out a word.
So I kept my mouth shut most of the time,
Blended into the background,
Eager to please but frightened to speak.
Praying the teacher wouldn’t call on me,
Because the answer was in my head
But couldn’t reach my lips.
 
My brother would taunt me mercilessly,
Sometimes my father would, too.
There was even a song.
But the worst were the faces of those
Trying to comprehend my hum-like blather.
They knew not to interrupt,
Not to finish my sentence
As I m-m-m’d and n-n-n’d before them,
A jester performing embarrassing acts at gunpoint.
They couldn’t look in my eyes,
So they would avert their eyes and find my trembling lips
As I vainly attempted to be understood.
Their eyes would soften in a fascinated reverie,
Staring at my mouth:
My mouth a toy spinning for their bemused well-meaning
exposition.
I despised them for their silent pity,
I envied them their minds that could so easily
Place fully formed words on their tongues.
 
Now my words glide as effortlessly as a gull downwind,
And I take for granted the gift that was bestowed upon me
Too gradually and too late,
As I blend into the background still,
My raspy New York voice a buzzing din,
And me a dull watercolor,
Many years ago
Painted by a desperate child
Without a voice.

NAKED SADNESS

Lying in bed naked,

Listening to James McMurtry

With my eyes in their surety

Of soreness and lack of faith,

Feeling my beard and sadness,

Thinking exclusively in lower

Case.

I stretch my naked

Body under the spinning of

The ceiling fan and that old

Ache feels familiar as always

And the coolness of my body

Makes me smile in spite of sad-

Ness.

Lying in bed naked,

Turning off the light and trying

To get my body in position,

Long past waiting for the call

That never comes, content now

Just to lie in bed and merely

Wait

For the one call

This is inevitable.

The only memento

from their marriage

was a large Plexiglas

bowl half-filled

with packs of matches

taken from restaurants

they’d eaten at,

“…though neither of

them smoked.”

Each pack represented

a memory of happier

times.

The, For Sale-Motivated

to Move, house had no

other signs of him:

No clothes

No pictures

No photo albums

No favorite pillows

No books…

I saw matches

from two places

I had worked at,

roughly ten years

apart. She noticed

me looking and said,

“I’ll throw them all

away when I go-

there’s no reason

to keep them now.”

We didn’t buy the home.

The price was right, but

the vibe was all wrong.

I wondered where

he was living now.

How it was she was

left behind.

Bad beginning

When Tony

put his

father’s massive

butterfly collection

in the

microwave

it should

have been

our first

clue 

then

he laughed

like a mule

as his

mother wiped

the bodies

out of

the oven

looking like

tiny pieces

of onion

skin.

The almost Monk

out on

the state

game lands

a young

guy with

a buddy

and their

girlfriends

are trying

out his

new handgun

on the

shooting range

when he

suddenly turns

and shoots

the friend

and his

girlfriend

multiple times

on the

next range

a 67

year old

man sees

this then

uses his

22 pistol

to shoot

the young

man 3

times killing

him before

he can

kill all

his friends

in that

moment the

old man

is thinking

of 40

years earlier

in Thailand

kneeling in

a Buddhist

Monastery

praying for

clarity as

he decides

he is

not ready

to become

the Monk

he thought

he wanted

to be

he says

those prayers

again today

each time

he pulls

the trigger.

My Father’s Ashes

by Ross Vassilev

The funeral home had a red carpet.

There was a wake in the main hall

for someone else’s loved one.

The funeral home director

gave me a red tote bag.

Inside was a small cardboard box.

Inside of the box was a plastic bag

with my father’s ashes.

The bag was heavy.

I said to my father

You’re so heavy, Tatko

but I didn’t mind.

My father carried me

when I was a child.

Now I was carrying his ashes.

I drove to my dad’s favorite park.

I parked the car and got out

carrying my father’s ashes

and a shovel I had just bought.

I dug a small hole

by the water’s edge

as best I could.

Digging the hole

in the tough, leathery March mud

was surreal.

I took out the plastic bag.

My father’s ashes were

small triangles of bone

with a few bigger pieces

the size of quarters.

I knew I should take them

out of the plastic bag

but I just couldn’t.

I put the bag in the hole in the mud

and covered it up.

I said

Goodbye for now, Tatko.

***

It rained

the next few weeks.

I went back to the spot.

The rain had opened a hole

in the plastic bag.

Water had got inside.

My father’s ashes now looked

like cigarette ash.

I picked up the bag.

The ashes were still just as heavy.

I poured them out

onto the earth.

I don’t remember

what I did with the bag.

I showed him the new cheap handgun

I had just bought.

Then I said

Let’s go to that other park you liked,

Tatko.

***

Snow has fallen now

where I left my father’s ashes.

I visit the spot

every now and then.

I don’t know why

since my father’s spirit

is not there.

My father’s spirit

is where-ever the angels

that he saw

took him that sad, cold day

in early March.

My father always told me

to sell his body

to a medical school

when he died.

It would’ve killed him

knowing that I spent

$600 on his cremation.

My father was sentimental

sometimes

but not when it came

to money.

There’s a lot of snow

everywhere now

and I have the rest of my life now

to remember the good times

and the bad—

to regret all the evil things he did—

everything I did—

to wish I could go back

and fix the past.

Now I’m left here

typing at my dad’s computer

thinking of snow

and remembering

a white hospital room—

cold of spirit—

where my father

always complained

that it was too damn hot

and all I can say is

I’m sorry, Tatko.

Watching Wicker Man

gave me the muscle

to ignore you,

delete your text messages,

pull you down

to a reedy ivy

path, bluebells

ringing loudly

in your ear,

the sun smelling

of sea between

your legs,

so sweet & innocent

as the scent of maple

wood smoke & 

prickly heat,

tickling your feet,

before you know

you’re the sacrifice

to the god

of Narcissus.

By One’s Own Hand

for Sundin Richards

We never met. I knew you only through the poems

that erupted from you like lightning from the muzzle

of a gun or that crackled and sizzled like smack when

it’s smoked. Now all that survives of you are disparate

shadows, shimmering echoes. Someone who knew you

better than me should have noticed you walking away,

collar turned up; should have stopped you before you

disappeared down a dark narrow street of dive bars

and drug houses and single room occupancy hotels.

Today would have been your forty-eighth birthday,

and Facebook, unaware  you’re dead, reminded me

to let you know I’m thinking about you. Sundin, I am.

Monster of God

It’s he who tears

holes in the sky,

confers the power

of life and death

on the disturbed

and the incautious,

murmurs approval

when a stray bullet

kills a 13-month-old

sleeping in a stroller,

squashes used souls

between his fingers, 

chalks the message

on walls and sidewalks

that if you don’t like

the fruit of heaven,

don’t shake the tree.

Coming to a Country Near You

My grandmother’s father

was a milkman, like Tevye

in Fiddler on the Roof.

He had a pair of horses

to pull his milk wagon. 

One horse was white,

my grandmother said,

and the other was red.

Russians took the horses

when they raided the village.

“They killed plenty Jews,”

my grandfather interjected

in his imperfect English.

My grandmother responded

the horses were beautiful.

Ophelia

My father does not understand a thing.

I would put your love inside of my mouth

If it meant silencing these doubts of mine.

You are everything.  Denmark is nothing.

How can you care less for love than for truth?

You God Damned fool.  Where should I draw the line?

Do you have to kill?  Must I go crazy?

We live so close to Germany.  And we

Live so close to the Ocean.  And I want

To be close, for you to crash like the sea

Against me.  I fear war.  And still I can’t

Avoid losing it. 

Why can’t you just . . .  be?

My father understands nothing. 

                        Nothing!

Denmark means nothing. 

                        You were everything.