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.

Voluntary Benefits Market History: A PowerPoint Presentation in More Slides than I Care to Count

I showed up late.
Ten minutes, to be exact.
The suit sucking wind by the microphone
may just be what Mary Shelley
was warning us about,
though I suspect this guy also frightens
        children.
A goatee in place of scars…
Hair plugs in place of neck bolts…
The Men’s Warehouse in place of fur and rags…
        ALL
        CONNECTED
        BY A
circle (BLAH BLAH)
    -->
square (BLAH BLAH BLAH)
    -->
triangle (BLAH)
    -->
the word “benefits” in magical friendly font
                (Comic Sans?)

In between the words
“Security”
“Savings”
“Cancer”
“Voluntary”
“Disability”,
    I begin to feel Nauseous.
    Sick, in fact.
    Ill.
So much, I wonder, “did he put on too much Brut?
                    Old Spice?”
Perhaps that tie combined with
my failing eyes
is fatal.

“Guidelines”
    “Waiver”
        “Open Enrollment”
Is this a last lunge forward?
A deathbed gasp wrapped in A4 paper
    and stamped 13 times
        “PRODUCT”
        “PRODUCT”
        “PRODUCT”…?
Did I actually hear the words “love” and “corporate”
    in the same sentence?

Sorry pal.
Today, I’m just here
    for a respite.
At most,
3 tri-fold pamphlets
    that someone else
will have to clear from my desk
after I am gone.

Beast

"That's the best part of School--
The social events,"
She drones in between
Flips of her skirt.
"Christ!" I think as I
Move just enough to allow
Some blood back into my testicles.
The best part of school for me
Was getting away from
All the dumb-ass yokel twats
I grew up with.
The best part of leaving school...
Getting away from all the dumb-ass
Pretentious fucks that littered
The campus like lice in cotton panties.
I'm not so confident in my escape though.
I still have to deal with the mirror
At least once a day.