A wet bottle of beer on the edge of the bathtub,
my hand holds it as well as I can and all
the lights are on and the fan hums quietly.
Hairs stick to the plastic wall and I think
I loved them at the party when they talked
so loud. And they all went home, left me
to talk to myself and the cat—I must seem arrogant
rambling on like this, loneliness
is an unlikely character assassin.
I don’t talk now. My hands are sinking
to my thighs, but my penis floats and I laugh.
The laugh moves through my ribcage
and ripples into the water, I laugh again
when I see my belly fat shake.
There will be time to look my best—
now I’m talking to myself again.
Loneliness isn’t much different
than contentment after the party.
My eyes drift, arm knocks the bottle
down into the bathwater, the clear and
lint and dinge mixes with golden brown, it floats
sideways like a message from a wayward friend.
Fumbling to stand it upright,
I set it again onto the ledge
(looks the same), grab hold tighter and
tip it towards my face (tastes the same)—
loneliness is a shrug at a cat lapping bathwater.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Men
The first gun I owned was an over-under
twelve gauge with a Russian barrel and Chinese
stock. It was a product of communism
but was not made for hunting humans: deep down
shotguns are defensive instruments. It was
given to me before I knew how to tie
shoelaces. The idea of firearms is
inherited: one never has to learn to
shoot if born from a womb lined with buckshot.
The pellet gun on the porch was for scaring
Canadian Geese off the back lawn. I had
trouble with the hand pump and never used it
much. I would watch my brother put it to his
shoulder and breathe: his face looked how a birthday
felt. I don’t recall what happened after that.
My grandfather was a good man. In the late
thirties he was arrested for shining the
headlights of his car at animals. Each night
he struggled to hoist the length of his rifle
on an open truck door, he thought about the
meat he’d share with his community and the
beer he’d drink on the drive to the border. His
brother-in-law, a man I don’t know by name,
turned him in to the police. He stopped driving
home altogether after serving his time.
Friends said he still drank but slept in the backseat.
When the bus drove past my parent’s home, I saw
my father down by the lake with a garbage
bag, his mouth fixed as a plump of geese looked on.
I thought he was weeding the beach, forgetting
it was too early in the season for weeds
and retreated to the woods so I would not
have to help him. As he got closer to the
house, I noticed two more things in his left hand:
the pellet gun and a red shovel. I never
remember the sunset that day or the light’s
descent into night but the bag he held shivered
under a phantom weight and was a kind of
sable I’ve seen since, in an eclipse.
twelve gauge with a Russian barrel and Chinese
stock. It was a product of communism
but was not made for hunting humans: deep down
shotguns are defensive instruments. It was
given to me before I knew how to tie
shoelaces. The idea of firearms is
inherited: one never has to learn to
shoot if born from a womb lined with buckshot.
The pellet gun on the porch was for scaring
Canadian Geese off the back lawn. I had
trouble with the hand pump and never used it
much. I would watch my brother put it to his
shoulder and breathe: his face looked how a birthday
felt. I don’t recall what happened after that.
My grandfather was a good man. In the late
thirties he was arrested for shining the
headlights of his car at animals. Each night
he struggled to hoist the length of his rifle
on an open truck door, he thought about the
meat he’d share with his community and the
beer he’d drink on the drive to the border. His
brother-in-law, a man I don’t know by name,
turned him in to the police. He stopped driving
home altogether after serving his time.
Friends said he still drank but slept in the backseat.
When the bus drove past my parent’s home, I saw
my father down by the lake with a garbage
bag, his mouth fixed as a plump of geese looked on.
I thought he was weeding the beach, forgetting
it was too early in the season for weeds
and retreated to the woods so I would not
have to help him. As he got closer to the
house, I noticed two more things in his left hand:
the pellet gun and a red shovel. I never
remember the sunset that day or the light’s
descent into night but the bag he held shivered
under a phantom weight and was a kind of
sable I’ve seen since, in an eclipse.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Maturity (Drinking Age)
Exciting new pain
In the soul
Like a safety-pin
Through a gentle black velvet
A dark unending gravity
Now open
A thread pulled
Undoing my clothing
Consider this array of bruises
Pick your favorite color from among them
Name it and take ownership
Getting closer
Beneath my blue-jeans
For 50$
Take everything you can fit
In two hands
And walk away
Adaptation
Of the parts you want the most
Insouciant blankness of the manuscript:
The revised edition
Listen to the same song
Again, again, again
Getting righteous
With the epic power ballad
The river beat
In an extended dance
You make eye-contact
With the high-powered lye
Of my body, and my face
Getting blinded
Please let me fade
From your imaginative vision
I want to ruin me, for me
Self-destruction
Like a sacred bath
Common law with a ritual
Of repetitive mistakes
I represent this with a ring
From my mother’s first marriage
An abstract swan, a silver band
It would be an honor
To fuck your shit up.
In the soul
Like a safety-pin
Through a gentle black velvet
A dark unending gravity
Now open
A thread pulled
Undoing my clothing
Consider this array of bruises
Pick your favorite color from among them
Name it and take ownership
Getting closer
Beneath my blue-jeans
For 50$
Take everything you can fit
In two hands
And walk away
Adaptation
Of the parts you want the most
Insouciant blankness of the manuscript:
The revised edition
Listen to the same song
Again, again, again
Getting righteous
With the epic power ballad
The river beat
In an extended dance
You make eye-contact
With the high-powered lye
Of my body, and my face
Getting blinded
Please let me fade
From your imaginative vision
I want to ruin me, for me
Self-destruction
Like a sacred bath
Common law with a ritual
Of repetitive mistakes
I represent this with a ring
From my mother’s first marriage
An abstract swan, a silver band
It would be an honor
To fuck your shit up.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
11:41 am
the sun broke through the clouds like a convict through a liquor store. all the liquor stores around here have a low fence to tell you not even to try it. you have to ask the lady in the sequined hat to grab it for you and she rings you out.
from here you have limited options- to drink or not to drink- the latter not really much of a choice at this point so you buy a bag of ice and peanuts- salty over sweet while youre off the wagon is best. after a couple of days when your pours dont smell of cheap beer, the sugar cravings return, but that doesnt happen all too often latly.
so you grab your booze and nuts and make your way to the kitchen and find a jar thats not too dirty and you pour it strong. half a half or better to start- the pours are sure to get heavier by the time you need to lean on the wall for support, but by then you wont remember anyway, other than the taste on your tongue when you wake up.
Humans sense differences: like how you cant smell something youve been in the same room with until you leave the room. if the taste on your tongue is the same you can never tell. this becomes terribly convenient when remembering your forgetting becomes troublesome.
so you make your way to the lady with the sequined hat and think about peanuts and feeling less
from here you have limited options- to drink or not to drink- the latter not really much of a choice at this point so you buy a bag of ice and peanuts- salty over sweet while youre off the wagon is best. after a couple of days when your pours dont smell of cheap beer, the sugar cravings return, but that doesnt happen all too often latly.
so you grab your booze and nuts and make your way to the kitchen and find a jar thats not too dirty and you pour it strong. half a half or better to start- the pours are sure to get heavier by the time you need to lean on the wall for support, but by then you wont remember anyway, other than the taste on your tongue when you wake up.
Humans sense differences: like how you cant smell something youve been in the same room with until you leave the room. if the taste on your tongue is the same you can never tell. this becomes terribly convenient when remembering your forgetting becomes troublesome.
so you make your way to the lady with the sequined hat and think about peanuts and feeling less
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