Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Who the Fuck are You Anyway?

I can’t see you Friday,
I’m Busy.

 Maybe we can spend time together
SaturdaySundayMondayTuesdayWednesdayThursday
Perhaps Next Friday?

 No. I’ll be Busy then, too.

And Every Day After That.

Click.

With a click of the phone
my world went dark.
Everything that had ever happened
everything that ever happened before
everything ever ever after that moment:

Commentary.

 Every action, rote, pointless.
Icicles form from my breath
shackles of meaningless guide me
dying to know why.

Rainbows of Shattered Glass

Once upon a time, there was a novelist.

            More accurately, once upon a time, there was a wanna-be novelist.

            Even more accurately, it was a dark and stormy night and a young man, a wanna-be novelist, awoke, the thunder, counting the seconds til the lightning hit, the rain whipped trees crashing against the window panes, the steady drip-drip-drip  of the leak from the skylight in the hall, the leak that only leaked when the rain came down at an oblique angle, or when the wind changed direction  and carried blackened dreams off into some wilderness, leaving ambition and hope a gritty puddle on the tiled floor, the leak where the flashing had eroded and never been repaired or replaced, even though the roof had been completely re-shingled.

            And then the electric went out.

            And the novelist, excuse me, the wanna-be novelist, took his notebooks and his pens and his pencils and the big, black Mag-Lite, the Mag-Lite Daddy gave him when Daddy caught him lighting candles in the closet to keep the bogums away, the Mag-Lite that didn’t always work anymore because once he dropped it in the intracoastal when he was scavenging. He took his blanket and Baby Moose and  Oye, his favorite stuffed Eeyore, the small one that fit in his pocket so no one knew he still carried a stuffy everywhere and hid in the hall closet, way down in the corner with the old sneakers and out of season clothes covering his head.

            And he waited.

            He waited for Daddy and Mommy to come find him and tell him it was okay, he could sleep in their bed, but maybe he’d like some cocoa and toasted jam first?

            He waited a very long time.

            He was eight.

            Maybe it was a long time or maybe it was an eight year old’s perception of a long time.

            But it was once upon a time and then and now.

            His college professor explained, “The enacted reality is reality.  So it doesn’t matter if it was a long time or if it felt like a long time. It matters how you remember it, because either way, it was a long time to you while you were living it and every time you recall it.”

            He was eight.

            And he was scared of lightning and thunder and rain and things that reminded him of lightning and thunder and rain, like when Mommy and Daddy argued and doors slammed and the police came with the blue whirling light on top of the car and the police lady gave him a grey elephant to keep Baby Moose and Oye company and then someone swept up all the broken glass that sounded like drip-drip-drip, not tickle-shatter-tinkle when it broke and washed the bloody footprints off the tile floor and told him he could stay in the closet as long as he wanted and not come out until he was ready.

            He waited a long time, or perhaps it felt like a long time.

            He was eight.

            But now there was someone tapping at the door, asking him to come out, come out of the closet, come out of all the closets he hid in, that it was safe and nothing was going to hurt him or Baby Moose or Oye or Mastie the elephant. Prince Charming was here to rescue him, to take him away on his Victory, off to the castle on the hill, where they would live happily ever after in a Neverland of their own invention, where rainbows sprinkled glitter snowflakes and the thunder didn’t come at all.

            The end.

All My Roads, Pt 6

I wake, confused
you are not here
the space beside me cold
I remember, I am away, not home 
It is natural that you are not here.

Soon, soon
the bed at home will be empty
your space grown cold
without your fevered restlessness
labored breathing
middle of the night stagger to the toilet.

It will be cool and smooth
books and papers and laptop
will reclaim the space they ceded you
or I might slide back to that side
given to you during some long-forgotten illness 

Perhaps, someday, I will mistake a street person
For you, wearing one of your old shirts.

 

Wasteland's Last Call

Last Call never feels
like last call, tomorrow

waiting, in silence

I finish my book

2 am, you stagger, smiling

I drive, stone sober

Sunday Times crosswords

not enough to build a life

nothing is enough, ever

The liquor, smooth sweet smoke

over ice, slides from your mouth 

into mine, I shiver, afraid

I reject the call

your photo blinks off the screen

last call, now silence

Sunset on a Wheelbarrow

Dust road shimmer, another dry afternoon

cloudburst just enough for runnels

and rotting spilt grain

a week’s worth of grain

on the ground, near the coop

but not enough for new corn growing

or unshriveled beans.

 

She sends the children

barrow tippers of grain now

mixed with rotgut bottles in the

knobbyshade tree roots

to a neighbor, watches

the chickens peck peck peck

at precious scattered gold.

 

Yellow marks and cigarette ‘O’s

on her arms, neck and thighs

wait for new color.

 

There is no money to

paint the house

but

soon

she will be vivid as sunset.

 

For William Carlos Williams

Published in Deland Museum of Art 2023 Collection

Last Call

I hear you calling,

you and my friends

from the old neighborhood.

They want to play stickball

and shootzies

and war, pretending

the dirt mounds in the junkyard

are foxholes.

But we didn’t know from foxholes,

not then, not yet,

not for a few more years, anyway.

You’re all calling me to come,

come out and play,

tell us about Big City Adventures

and small city escapades.

I hear one soft voice

inside all the other voices

sometimes reading with me

and I correct your pronunciation

of the harder words.

I hear one voice, your voice,

calling me,

come, come out,

it’s time to come out and play,

your voice,

my baby brother,

my best friend.

I heard your first cry

and your last whimper

and your call.

New York October

We spend the equinox together

testing, toes frozen in puddles,

testing if I can live in

darkness, on streets of quiet except

for the trash collector and the

cries of pimps beating the last few

pennies from crack whores.

You have already rejected my

sunrise. It made you squint and plead

for inner corridors and musty Victorian

drapes and carved doors locked with

fobbed keys.

We share a $2.95 breakfast special at

Moondance.  You pay the check.

I leave a $5 tip before I dive into the light.

Secret Life of an American Wife

Secret Life of an American Wife
Surrounded by secrets-What are we hiding, anyway?
I know, I know what lurks in the hearts of all
and it is not evil, not anything that exciting or creative, no
it is fear
it is resignation
it is past hope, devoid of redemption
See! That one over there? 
He lives behind Walmart, in the truck he bought, used, when he finished high school.
Her? She skips her insulin and lunch was dumpster diving.
The greyhair across the room? She drives without insurance and will be relieved when they repossess.
Young man with frayed jeans? He moved back in with his parents and her sister and her kids.
But they all smile and pretend and make like they’re going to work and class and and and
and oh my, yes, education and integrity are so important, of course, yes sir, I will, thank you, and we all want more of this and and and
I know their secrets, how close, shoulders burning, white fingertips clutching at the precipice, they are to falling. I know.
I have secrets of my own.

Justice, Justice Thou Shalt Pursue

     "Momma, Momma, I didn’t mean it, Momma. I don’t know..."
     My girl stands there, holding a rag doll, a muddy rag doll that used to be my light, my angel, my joyful noise in the morning, in her hands.
     "Momma, I think I broke it. Can you fix it, Momma? Can you? You fix everything, Momma. Can you? Please?"
     I stare at the flat eyes, greyed skin, fingerless nails. I, who rewired lamps, cleared elbows, soldered cracked engine blocks, I, who fix just about anything, I knew I couldn’t fix this. No one could fix this, not even God. No one.
     I shake my head.
     "Momma, please, Momma. Can’t you try? I don’t know who else to ask, Momma."
     I shake my head again, so cold except for the urine I realized was streaming down my leg.
     "Momma, help me. You can, you have to, Momma."
     The uneven plaster on the wall snags my shirt and keeps me upright while I shake my head. I watch the spinning colors behind my eyelids. I cannot look at what is in front of me.
     "Momma, if you can’t fix it, can you make it go away? Momma?"
     I swallow and nod yes.

Life is Rolling Thing

I’ve found I can live with anything
Pain
Grief
Scars
Torment of a broken soul
Seizure of a schism heart
Yes, I can
Yes, I have
but I can’t live with fear
Icicles in my eyes and paralysis of my hands
and pulse of blood slower slower and so cold
oh my god, the cold
No, that I cannot live with
So
I can live without you
a bone splitting I can take, take easily, take fine
just fine, everything will be fine
but the powerpoint possibilities you flash
hypnotize me to sleep, perchance to dream
of a place I cannot, will not go.

Toy Cars and Other Fictions

The child, of that age and appearance where gender is indeterminate, pushes the toy car back and forth in the sandbox until it is buried. Grabbing a bedraggled sock monkey, runs off to another adventure in the land of playground, while I ponder retrieving the tiny vehicle from its cat litter grave.

I’ve heard there is a car cemetery somewhere in Florida, a row of cars standing on end, noses in the concrete, their own row of neat gravestones, near a major highway, but I’m not sure I believe it. Perhaps it is another urban myth, like the sewer gators who run the New York City subway system or the underground civilization in Section 9.

But the roof of that tiny car is violet, the same shade of violet as my first set of adult lingerie, bought for a once and future life which came to the end I did not anticipate a few short years ago. Violet ribbons threaded through the palest green lace, so pale it could have been green or a shadow from the light because it was hand-dyed and custom fitted with teeny-tiny pearl buttons.

They, the buttons that is, were also violet.

And the button loops were pale green, all sixteen of them, in a neat row down the front, way to small for a man’s fingers to manipulate. One by one, I undid those button loops I’d painstakingly done up a few hours earlier. One by one, the chemise fell away, leaving me naked, vulnerable.

I shove the car back into the sand box and hurry to push the child on the swings.

Unclean Title

The hibiscus are in bloom.
There. That place. Where I used to live.
Engine running, Jackie-O sunglasses and scarf, I resemble a 1960's starlet in disguise.
But if they came out, they'd recognize me.
I hope.
I dread.
Its not yellow any more. My favorite house color.
Every house I ever owned was some shade of yellow,
Porch, shutters, gingerbread, window trim, if not all.
The sun bouncing off the clotted red hurts my eyes. I blink a few times to focus.
The crepe myrtle is gone, and the palm
-I don't know what kind it is, I never cared about that-
is so tall it shades the optional bay alcove I paid extra for.
Its just a place I used to store my things and pace the halls because I couldn't sleep,
hornets stinging, subdermal demons writhing,
while the voices threatened to trap me in between the sheet rock and cinderblock.
It was never home.
I put the car in drive and ignore the stop sign at the corner.

Rude Behavior

Sitting here, not paying attention
rudeness to the nth degree
but at least I sit quietly,
absorbed in myself.

Totem Mask

He's waiting. Churning. Trembling, watching the clock numbers change,
I know everything that will happen when we put our public faces on the wall for the night.

"Ask. If you don't ask,
the answer is always no.
Ask Improve the odds
to fifty-fifty.
Take a chance on you."

No, Daddy, you're wrong.
I asked. The answer is still no.
I don't ask anymore.

Awesome

I wonder. Is that arrogance, for me to wonder?
Is it?
Am I so self-important, so self-righteous that I dare to wonder?
Because I do not wonder
quaking in my seat
tongue buckshot riddled to useless
arms and hands and fingers spasming in envy desire to hold their own
legs tense, feet squelching invisible mud in glee.
No, I do not wonder, feeling any of that.
I do not wonder ‘awesome'

I wonder, what's the point?
Are you trying to con me with gussied up plastic filigree flatware?
So yes, I am presumptuous, insolent, puffed up.
I am proud, drunk on my own oxygen laden blood cells.
I'll hold my words against yours, raise an eyebrow in disdain and walk away, thinking,
‘Pathetic.'

Strut

He struts, shakes his pompadour back, preening, I think.
I can't be sure because he's so far away
but it looks like preening to me anyway.
Last time I saw him,
He was biting her neck, hard,
while he bent her over, spread her legs with his knees and fucked her.
She didn't say a word, just stared out into nothing,
and after, staggered away, numb, perhaps bemused by the experience.
Now, he preens,
makes himself pretty for another one.
"Hi, have we met, you sure are cute, anything you want, I can get you.
Why don't you come over here?" and wham!
Another one. Another notch in his asshole belt.
I sit here, sipping my tea, watching out the window.
Ducks aren't so different from people

Thinner

Fingers down the throat
He vomits dreams, wants to lose
one more pound. Just one.

Modern Art

They were your typical, pretentious, artsy-fartsy devotees of the oeuvre, given to hyperbole and polysyllabic vocabulary such as senescent, canard and effluvia, which they used but didn't necessarily know the meaning of, nodding their heads in agreement or cocking them to one side to show deep consideration of the opinion expressed, before either nodding or arguing the opposite most vociferously, even if they didn't sincerely hold that view but enjoyed the questionable glee of playing devil's advocate or dogged supporter.

They drank double espressos, smoked cigarillos, not cigarettes which kill [besides, cigarillos cost at least three times as much as Camels, so they must be better], shopped at Zabar's, Whole Foods and Dean & Deluca but never, ever set foot in a regular supermarket or mass market retailer. They had the nanny or the housekeeper pick up toilet paper and canned goods at Target, pronounced Tar-jay, and carry the purchases up in a recyclable bag with the bull's-eye logo.

Milling around the gallery, sipping Chardonnay and nibbling brie encrusted with cranberries on multigrain crackers, snatching rumaki [so retro it's chic!] or spanakopita from paper lace covered trays, they exclaimed, gazing at the epiphanic work of the exhibit:

That streak of white-it speaks to me.
So evocative of Pollack.
The whole scenario, it's, it's, it's the Vagina Monologues writ loud.
See where the artist channels Gentileschi right there.
I can't get enough. Sweetheart, do you think it'll fit on the library wall, if we clear all the furniture out so there's room for the piece to be properly appreciated?
I've followed her since she was a student at Pratt.

Buzz, buzz, buzzword. The critics were in their glory, pandering to each other, upping the ante with each glowing phrase.

Then the artist entered, frowned, and removed the buckets.

A Rose by Any Other Name is a Rock

You can't hate a rock
for being a rock instead
of a frying pan.

Things, people don't change,
not intrinsic, not inside.
Except when they do.

I'm not weak sick deaf
stupid blind silent. Not now.
All of me is here.

New me? Same me? More.
Body craves sleep. Go away.
Truth hurts. Tears come back.

It doesn't have to be
like this. It can be easy.
Huh. You won't let it.

You can't justify
cruel. Your heart is a rock,
breaks my windows.