The Alternative

I am trying to slow my breath
Let the moments dissipate
And roll off of me
Trying to avoid the mind of a victim
To avoid my own eyes
Or at least to see beyond
Myself
Beyond
These moments

The tremor in my hand betrays me
Seems to laugh at me
With hushed breath
In my left ear
Even in my pocket
For fear of others noticing
Fear of my own narrow
Sight
My own
Attention
As sharp as a hair

I must see you as dirt
Taste you as smoke
Thick black fingers down my throat
I must step with distain
Upon you face
To the train
From the train
Within your valley of glass
And steel
I project a river of fractures
Wrapped around your spine
A reason to run
Before the collapse

The alternative
Weighs upon me
Would fold me to my knees
If I did not compress it
Hold back the flashes
Memories of a warm hand in mine
The smile of my love
As she sits waiting for me
In the doorway
Locked out again
She wasn’t even angry
Simply trusted I would show up
Eventually

I have tried to press the memories
Into small photographs
Burned at the edges
Cut in half
So I no longer see
Fingers pointing at the sky
Eyes peering over the ledge
Counting the heads of neighbors
So I no longer feel
Laughter
Wrapped around my entire head
Like a pillow

Nostalgia can become a well
Built brick by brick
Up around us
Dreams the flip-book of
Absence

I didn’t even notice
As it crept along
Day by day
Like moss

I slow my breath again
Try to pretend I do not miss her face
Do not miss my love
My heart
She does cartwheels in the sand
Every time I close my eyes

I can only exhale slowly
Until this purgatory ends
The alternative
Doesn’t care

Drawn

she was just a spit

past pretty, but her

eyes

were sharp and

her shoulders

strong

I curled around her neck for 3

months

watching the water

waiting

for a light

knowing I would eventually

crawl back

to myself

or the loss of my self

either one

the same

direction

part of the same horizon

hidden behind the same

loose sail

devoid of push

lacking of pull

home

unfortunately

for both of us.

Train Marshal Diary - Entry One

"____________ Shoot! ____________ Shoot! Shoot! ____________ Shoot! ____________ Shoot! Shoot!!" DOT DOT fucking DOT.

It went on like that for 17 minutes and 32 seconds. Yes. I did time it. Call it a compulsion. Whatever. I could tell from the first "Sh–" that I would not enjoy waiting it out. So, I started counting.

Numbers reveal many things. 5 minutes until the next Red Line train, 4 fingers on the left hand of the man quietly sitting across from you, 3 mirrors reflecting your mug as you shave at 5:26 am, or -$2.22 in your damn bank account. Some practical, some depressing, some a measure of decline. Like 17 minutes and 32 seconds of listening to "shoot shoot" rhymes second hand.

I couldn't even hear the kid's iPod. Between the sound of his feet shuffling and stepping to the beat and his punctuated leaps to join in, I couldn't tell if he was actually listening to anything at all. At best, he's off his meds. At worst, a stupid punk fuck who thinks that gyrating and yelling on a public train somehow makes him cool.

"Shoot! Shoot!"

The people around him are no better. They pretend he is no bother or ignore him altogether. They scatter as best they can on the crowded car. They make a dance floor. They grant him center ring. But I see their eyes twitch – their teeth grind. I see between their robotic smiles and the skin under their fingertips. At 5 minutes in, I know they are cowards. I would have to involve myself.

What rubs me is this is below my station. This is not why I am here – not the job. Anyone else could open their mouth and ask. Bitch at him. I am here for the bigger picture.

Being a federal train marshal is a thankless position. The people who volunteer know that up front. We do not need or really want a pat on the back. Most of us begin out of a sense of duty, imagining days of quiet satisfaction. Being a silent protector. The unseen hand over the shoulder. At some point, duty rolls over and becomes nauseating inertia. I still believe in the job. I just don't know about the people we are protecting.

I start to hear the music that seemed imaginary. "Boom tick-a-chick splash boom chick-a-splash SHOOT! Boom tick-a-chick splash boom chick-a-SHOOT SHOOT!" This takes me right to the edge of my seat. I am staring directly at his face as he lobs it from side to side. He throws his head back and lets out a high pitched "Whooo!" Mistake. I take the book I have been trying to read (Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life), lean forward about a foot and swiftly tap it's spine across his Adam’s apple.

He is on his ass before someone can catch him. Following protocol, I swiftly stand up and walk off the train right before the doors close. No need to engage the public with details they don't need to know. Not for something like this. I see faces pressed against the windows as the train pulls out of Francisco. Everyone looks shocked. An old Asian lady is pointing at me, tapping her fingernail on the plastic coated glass. Her lips mouth the word "asshole".

Hrmph I think as it begins to disappear.

Liquidation

Under the shadow of
Empty boxes
This heat
This damn heat
Makes me smile
Legs and arms
Arms and legs
Kicking and punching
To hold up nothing more than air
Wrinkled coupons
And sun bleached posters
Promising bliss
At 30 to 40 percent off
All this concrete could have been
Could have
Been
The glass however
Will take care of itself
Crawling back to the beaches
And deserts
When we least stand watch

The Thing

This is not the thing
That exists
Between grains of sand
Silently preventing
Their escape upward
Upward and far away
No
This is the wedge
The knife
Pressed slowly beside
The lock
Waiting
For the inevitable twist
Then kick

Now, it is before you
Watching
Before you
On the table
Like a fat, untrained cat
With a taste for whiskey
Waiting to pounce on the eye
You’ll eventually
Roll across the floor

Its patience is numbing

insomnia

In a place where sleep is more valuable
Than self respect, I sit up to wind thoughts
Around my forearm
Counting the loops
Each a little shorter than the previous

It is not long before I am lost
Distracted from where I am
So instead, I trace a heart
Over your left eyebrow
With a blue fingertip

Synesthesia

Too bound to accord the metaphor
Too taciturn to find other words
Too myopic to see our touching noses
Too addled to taste our own breath

Reversal

Mildly past due for an adjustment
Partially concerned
All I need is a razorblade
     And 5 minutes
     To slice open the sun
Watch it run out like fresh eggs
The yolk falling upon the
Attached and the Dis-
     connected
          Equally
When all is done, I shall sell raincoats
     And skillets

Collar

Sometimes I forget that the belt
Around my neck
Is reversible
A trick in black or tan
I must be
Too busy lunging ahead
For things
Not quite there
A dog with cataracts
Snapping at rain
Distracted

A slow turn to the left should release me
Just tilt your head for good measure

tremor

The shake
The slight shake
   Of my hand
   Can be hidden
       Disguised
   Folded up in an envelope
If need be
Or held at bay
   By a wall of bricks
   As fake as my smile
But these days
   I more often forget
   To notice
   Even use my pockets
The simplest of things falling
   Behind
   The taste of plaster
       In my mouth
Perhaps soon
I shall sit center
Facing all eyes
   As I inflate
   Paper boxes
   To juggle
       Behind my back

The twitch in my left eye
Is another matter

Cap'n - Part One

The Ray Bans you brought all the way from California spread the sun out in front of you like a knife. The Chicago snow appears to melt around your feet as the Wrigley Building itself bends over to suck you off. Let loose that bomber jacket “Top-Gun”. This is going to be one to remember. Let fate top it off with a heart attack or scurvy at the very least. I’m bored and a daydreamer. But of course, you already know that, Cap’n.

02/08/10

If only I were just three sheets
I might laugh at this wind
Might lay down next to this bus
And piss in the air
Nothing of concern or consequence
At least not on a Monday

Practice

I wrote these words to get paid
But it didn't pan out
I forgot to sell-out
Forgot to wear a suit to the meeting
I slept through

I spent this paper to build ships
But all I have are hats
I wear in the rain
As I wipe ink from my eyes
Plans like water

I held out my arms to embrace you
But I've been grasping trees
While you hide laughing
I'm getting a little closer though
Moving backwards in measured steps

Practice helps

Distraction

6 Becomes five becomes 3 more days
12 and counting
With more over the horizon
A stampede of boredom

Thoughts
Drawn out thin as a reed
Time too
Dissolved
While I reach for my own tail

Just a twist and a lunge
Just a pathetic flick
For anything larger than a finger
A poor man's anchor
An excuse to get behind myself

I will self-actualize in my own
Good time
Thank you
So
Get used to your own cock in you
Mouth
Dangling your shoes in the air

Turn your head and cough when your done
Just keep it off my shelf

Center Path

I thought I'd try walking the Center Path, but discovered I'd already stepped off the curb. A swim in traffic before a breath confirming the assistance of the benign intersection signal, my foot jumped ahead of my brain. Angry cabs, old-time horse-drawn carriages, fixed-gear bicycle messengers whistling the theme from Breaking Away and the CTA eco-bus all skim the back of my coat. Surely the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shall ride fixed-gear bicycles. Hopefully, the eco-bus runs on the fresh remains of messengers or cabbies. One must never stop dreaming. However, one who is not ready may wish to stay on the sidewalk. The Center Path is not going anywhere. Besides, Thursdays are street cleaning days. If the odds of one being assaulted by a city street cleaning vehicle are high, one might consider staying home to watch the View. It won't relax you, but you will have fulfilled the obligatory terms of your social contract with big media – at least for the next two weeks.

moment

If I had the urge to set aside
            Thoughts
            About you
I
    Might
        Start
            Here
Far far away from you or your world of
Cheap crooks
Thought-fuck derelicts
        and
            Stage-Mothers
I
    Might
        Return
            To myself
            Midstream
        Wearing
    You
As a puppet
Half-swollen
Gas-mask brigade in tow
            Left
            Full-forgotten in
                    a
                    Shoebox
Wet, falling back upon itself
    Curled out around our faces
    Closer than
    the
    Hand
    on
    Your ass
All without mention the moment when
        I laid
        A revolution
        on
        Your belly
            Dressed as
            a Teddy bear

pull me around beat me by the ears all the blood returns to
                            The
                            Same
    Redundant
    Moment

The Verge

A chrysalis or a catacomb
Either way time spins darkness
Like a child traces their hand
With chalk

In a room that smells like the memory
Of whiskey
Slow hopeful gasps for rebirth
Fight the urge to sleep
Long drawn out puffs of air and dust
Coat the lead glass of the floor

There is no time left
For the dream of water
No space besides

There is no laughter
But my own, echoing
Back at myself

A chrysalis or a catacomb
Either way darkness spins time
As my feet trace a path

Ink and Water

The answer was printed
As answers often are
On the inside brim
Of a paper hat
Long since overturned
In the desert sand
Collecting rain

Some things are just like that
    Waiting
For the right thirst
    The right boot
    To fall against
Some deceptions hide that way
    Reaching silently
For a small moment
    Of attention
    To pass by

The cure is still a ruse
The ink and water shall still
Run down our arms
    Away from revelation
It's just woven with a bit more
            Patience
    Than you or I
    Have set aside

Breath

I have been holding my breath
Behind my teeth
Looking for a simple corner
Of undiscovered openness
I may as well
Blow it back into my hand
Get to work
    Move on

This street is narrow
        Desolate
Nothing to be found in potholes
Save the dried saliva of wolves
                Or blood
Either one of little use to me
Being anything but
        A magician
        An aerialist
        Or anchorman
           
I crack my neck
And stumble ahead.

Yesterday was "that" day.

I look down at the phone. "Long and hard" would be a shit description and a lie. A glance is enough. Photographs of other people's lives. Children littered around their feet or crammed upon their laps. "Happy Father's Day!" Again...again...and again. I am not disturbed, disgusted or envious. In fact, I am pleased some of the "breeders" out there are my friends...people I have a genuine respect and affection for. I am, however, detached. Full up in this moment with a bewildering nothingness. I have stopped wishing others a happy Father's (Fathers'?) Day. I make an exception for my Father-in-law and actually look forward to calling each time this Sunday rolls around. He has earned it. I do not spend time doubting others' worthiness, but I do wonder if I have earned it.

My father died when I was two years old in my Mother's arms. If asked, she would tell you she was grateful for having that last moment. That's not an extraordinary sentiment for a widow...just something I am grateful I was too young to remember. I am told I stood day after day by the front door waiting for him to return from delivering the mail.

I'll pause here to keep this from being overly sentimental. See, this "memory" has yet to belong to me. I doubt it ever will. It is a fabrication woven from snippets and crumbs I have gathered over the years. The child by the door is nothing more that a Norman Rockwell creation with a skinned knee and a red wagon. Most days, I keep that issue lying face-down on the table.

Perhaps he would have taught me how to avoid getting beaned while playing T-ball. There’s trauma for you.