Our Solemn Debris 


In the quiet of the evening of the end
with the sidewalks empty and traffic nonexistent
one by one neighbors wheel separate trash and
recycling totes to the curb automatically
trained and uniform as their gray and yellow bins
 
We are keeping it together one foot from the street and
at least four feet apart so tomorrow morning
the mechanical arm of the upgraded trucks
can grip with assurance and hoist
receptacles like whiskey shots
 
knocking back into a wet brown gob  
compacted toasts for every human
the virus tucks away behind nuclear doors
inwardly thrashing with panic yet calm
enough to save reusables from a landfill fate

Left Blank

a catawampus catastrophe

one in which all hope is depleted

an exorcising of ostentatious thought

all for naught

upheaval of mindset blackness

cast away far fetched fascinations

only to reveal themselves as reality

oh to feel satisfied

oh to feel anything

oh to feel again

if only once more

the lips of a lover

the death of a loved one

trying to take it all in

and make sense of it

for one day 

we all will experience

the loneliness inside a buried box

…

A Spurious Spectacle

a mosquito hawk walks across the table

as stir-fry is on the stove

my glass is not yet empty

so I’ll attempt to write something

a pretentious

fantastical

far-fetched 

show about one guy trying to find

love from 30 or so different women

is on the television in the next room

this show has always struck me as

implausible and doltish

we are giving one man

30 women to choose from

all bidding for attention and

throwing themselves at him

such a foolhardy and asinine scenario

this show that numerous women watch

baffles me because this same man

on any given Saturday night 

would bend over backwards to 

bend over any one of these women

but now because of the cameras

and game show backdrop

he is king shit with the king dick

able to choose his perfect mate

but in actuality

a man goes out hoping he gets to fuck

a woman leaves the house

knowing whether or not 

she is getting fucked

it’s just so disheartening and counterfeit

my drink is drained

the stir-fry needs to be stirred

the mosquito hawk is nowhere in site

   The Little Drinking Imp

My mum’s family is from Ireland
maybe that’s how I got the curse.
The one that they are famous for,
that legendary Irish thirst.

But my dad’s dad was a  drinker,
and he was from Stoke On Trent.
I’ve heard he sang, and danced on tables,
in every pub he went.

It’s always been part of my thinking,
and at times it can get rough.
Whenever I start drinking,
I’ve never had enough.

I’ll drink till I’m unconscious,
make a fool out of myself.
It doesn’t do much for my confidence,
or my physical and mental health.

I just can’t seem to fight it,
in my mind is a thirsty, little imp.
He leaps around and gets excited,
whenever I start to drink.

He keeps on calling for more and more,
and he never, ever stops.
He says things that I can’t ignore,
and keeps on until I drop.

I’ve got to find a way to kill him,
or gain the strength of mind
to show that I am willing
to leave him far behind.

I’ve got to kill the little shit,
show him that it’s over.
Show him I can’t be messed with,
show that I can stay sober.

disclaimer

     this is about another man’s love

my passion having dissipated

      long ago – I choose to blame

the myriad annoyances

     of domestic bliss

but it must have been before

between drinks and hangovers

     that I made my compromise with life –

a big word I was once advised

to avoid like death as no one believes

     you know what they mean

but like an inebriated mariner

     with an incomprehensible yarn

I will keep you here

     outside the wedding feast

and maybe that’s my real purpose

     but maybe it isn’t

and that hope too we share

     as if it were the last

drop of water on earth

     and our two tongues

in tasting its final sweetness

     taste each other

           finally

bit by bit, little by little

there were times when she bit and
chewed the inside
of her elbow

to spit the bits of flesh
and the blood
on her grandma

but those times were over

almost forgotten

along with the teachings that
her blood is poisoned
because she was conceived with the
wrong woman, meaning
not the one grandmother intended for
her father

But today all those
people were dead. Only father was
alive

He was all right. A hard working
man, busy with life

busy enough not to notice
that his daughter
is constantly sprinkling ashes in
his food and coffee

He’d almost consumed the
contents of
his mother’s urn

there’s just
a bit left

we gotta spend more time together

“I was ten years old,” she said,
her head resting on
my shoulder. “And the flames
covered the damn sky. Though our
neighbor was actually
lucky. Lucky I
didn’t burn his house. I mean,
motherfucker had it
coming. You don’t run over a girl’s
puppy and expect to
get out scratch free, you know?”

“I too had a neighbor
who ran over
my puppy with his tractor,” I said.
“I think I was also around
ten.”

“And what did you do
about it?” she asked

“Nothing,” I said

“What? But how?”

“Like I said, I was just some
insignificant kid from
the countryside. All I could
do was cry.”

“My God,” she said, “that’s so
fucking lame. Where’s
that neighbor of
yours today?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps he’s dead.
He was pretty old
when it all happened.”

“If that’s the case then
you have the duty to
go piss on his grave. At least.”

“Um… I wouldn’t know where
that is. And besides,
I learned to forgive.”

“That’s what the weak say. What
kind of man are you?”

“One who doesn’t hold grudges?”

She sighed. “We gotta spend
more time together.”

“And learn from one another?” I asked

She didn’t reply

A YOUNG GIRL IN A SHACK

Your boundaries are all around you

from the broken planks of the kitchen floor

to the nails, many times driven up from below.

Cradling a cross in a mongrel bed,

with a dog the color of murky dusk,

nibbling on anything-will-do food

with only a scar on your wrist for guidance,

no longer thinking up excuses to love someone again.

Parents thrown together without inspiration,

on some street named for a cure for constipation,

rough as the switch leaning against the wall,

learning the lingo of frog croak.

Wind through cracked window,

fierce as the eyes of some old wretch

trying to pick up children in the park,

and unintentionally critical

like everything that touches you,

even those undisciplined hands.

Snake slid in here once, you remember,

a wake-up call for someone who didn’t sleep so well anyhow –

it didn’t bite –

not a snake anyhow,

just some man who said he was your uncle.

2. A.M., BARS CLOSED

My buds have taste memory.

That’s why they’ve not moved on

from alcohol.

At least, the weather’s in the now,

even if its only wind

and rain.

I stand here,

snarled in dampness,

skin shivering,

hair a thick brown puddle.

Drops penetrate my lips.

I can taste myself.

She’s not here.

No arms caress me.

My ears are whisper-less.

It’s up to the booze

to encompass,

the weather to embody.

And the rain keeps falling,

dares me to do the same.

But my hand is raised.

I’m looking for a taxi.

If one stops,

surely it will take me

some place.

I live in hope.

Maybe it can drive me there.

HAYMARKET

I stand in the shadow of the city.

Its silhouette pats my head.

Around me, stalls and pushcarts

sell the wares I smell.

It’s almost dusk.

The choicest of the choice are gone.

The rest have been picked over.

What’s not green is red or yellow.

But for the fish,

their gray scales topped with ice,

forlorn faces gazing up

at the darkening sky.

For five bucks, I have myself

a box of mangoes,

immigrants far from their homeland,

a taste of the tropics in Boston.

The vendors are packing up.

Customers drift away.

Nearby, Quincey Market

is about to shake off its history,

become night-life.

A desire for something fresh

vacates the shuttered stands,

is taken up by bars and restaurants. 

home run

driving west on dodge, listening

to the royals and the indians on the radio

the commentary was  grey and foggy

like the missouri river in november

as we got to 72^nd street

george brett hit one out of the park

that’s twelve and counting so far this season

looking thru the windshield I could see

the moon was punching a hole in the night sky

right then she told me she was leaving

all she ever did to me was walk away

anyhow the royals won the game

in the eleventh inning

it was a double header

Get ready

Our CO
says because
people are
going to
die in
our care
and if
you don’t
know how
that will
make you
feel you
need to
get ready

while those
of us
who already
know who
have put
a rigid
body in
a white
plastic
bag or
wrapped
a dead
child in
a towel
like a
wet puppy

we already
know you
can’t get
ready
any more
than you
can make
it rain

or stop
the dreams
after it
happens.

How drunk is drunk enough

To forget
That hiccup
cough that
intercostal
tightening
when a
patient is
too far
gone

how drunk
is drunk
enough to
forget the
Afghan child
you wrap
in a
blanket to
hand back
to its
mother

how drunk
is drunk
enough to
face the
memory
of telling
your wife
how good
joining
the Navy
will be
for your
family.

To the twenty something who tried to give me advice on how to write poetry

Son
at 55
my advice
to you
is in
your 20s
try harder
to live
than
to write

the world
already has
too many
white boys
who think
they can
play the
blues.

Creep
Like I
can’t write but I
can hold this baggie with the pinkies
and the greenies
hold it like the bread of Christ
rub the smooth plastic
with my fingers
to feel the chalky grit
and pop em as I need em

envelope myself into
a white fuzzy
dim lit
dim wit
dense and loose
burdened with the fear
or the lack there of — if
baggie goes bye-bye
my heart stops

alone in my head
all the ghosts float back in
through the holes of my eyes
left open from shock waves
never fully closed since birth
lazy eye
fuck eye
touch my pocket – we are good
I feel the baggie
lips quiver
sigh of relief

endless need
for relief

Nocturne No. 15

When my son learned about this book, he wrote his own.
It’s titled “Nocturnal Animals.” In big and bold brown marker,
the “Contents” begin with “How do You live in the Dark?”