You laid your plaited skirt
on the foot of my bed,
neatly folded as though
in doing so you could somehow
retain your virtue.  In the midst
of our fleshy thrashings, I kicked
it to the floor, and you began
to cry, deep sobs that rattled
the mattress springs.  I moved,
too reluctantly, to retrieve it
but you said, “Why bother?”
Making love doesn’t always
mean making sense, and so
I threw my feet to the floor,
pulled on my jeans, and looked
back, although I would never be
able to see.
“So that’s it?” you sobbed.
In affirmation, I buttoned my
shirt and turned toward the door,
…as an afterthought, picked up
your once plaited skirt, tossed it
carelessly over my shoulder,
and left.

Whiskey sour. The most appropriately named
of all libations. It dances circles around “whiskey
neat,” because I’ve never been neat about my
drinking, but I’ve often been sour.
“If you’re going to be scribbling in that journal,
howse about you take that someplace else,”
barks Rudy, my corner bartender. I’ve been
a steady since before Rudy came to work
here, but there truly is no sanctuary for the poet.
“Kiss my flattened arse, you bastard, and pour me
another,” I reply without even looking up. He laughs,
flips me the finger, and grabs a near empty bottle
of Maker’s Mark. “You ever published any of that
shit?” he rejoins as he pours. “Listen,” says I, “stick to your
areas of expertise, which I believe is football (soccer)
and whores, and leave the writing to me. We’ve
both problem enough with our own curses.”
“You ever write about me..the bar?” he persists.
“Not until this very moment.” I concede and with
that I slam my notebook shut with profound defeat.

Later, she came to the door
and knocked, knocked, knocked
while I stared
at the crack spreading
up the wall,
reminding me of her varicose veins.
I tapped my foot in time.

I will most certainly die
on this side of the door one night,
and all the ringing and knocking
won’t bring me back to life.

I wish I could have given her more.

More of my time, myself, my love.
But a man cannot give what he
doesn’t possess, unless you count
the empty promises. Of these, I have
given beyond measure.

I wish I could have loved her more.

More deeply, more sweetly, more completely.
But I hated myself too much to
truly love another. I cared, but that’s
hardly the same. And the love I received
simply gave me permission to misbehave.

Until it was gone.

Above all, I wish I had more wishes.

My father was a gifted man,
if by gifted you mean having the ability
to take a perfectly good family and
fuck it up beyond all recognition.

I often wonder what his childhood
was like – did he lay awake at night
anxiously awaiting that condemning
sliver of light from a cracked bedroom
door? Did he endure the midnight
smell of rum and coke that announced
another night of abuse? Did he whisper
to himself, “this is what I want to do
when I grow up?”

He had a gift for loving his children,
much like a pimp has the gift of loving
his whores.

Those were the lost years
when my days were bathed in
the hazy, soft glow of fentanyl
and tomorrow never came.
Those were the stacked hours
of feeling nothing
and floating lazily
down the opium river.
I neither belonged there,
or here,
for more than one lucid moment
between applied patches -
On with the new and hungrily
chewing the old.
I was then a woken mummy,
wrapped in dirty layers of
chemical indifference,
stepping haltingly from
light into shadow.
In those years,
my world spun on a shaky spindle,
my North, my South, my East
and West tossed into a
dark, bottomless hole.
Saturdays were spent in
sweat stained sheets,
clothed in smoke and asphalt
as the withdrawals descended;
counting the seconds and praying
Death would gather me in its
dark bosom.
Every four weeks, the pharmacist
would call my name and I would
lather, rinse, repeat.

Your night has fallen,
and the light of the new moon
is filtered through an
unbroken mass of cloud,
a brilliant ray reflecting
upon your works.

Your verse remains standing,
redeeming the world from darkness:
they seem to move and
we are filled with awe.

Your words were mountains,
iron-like masses thrown heavily
against the somber sky -
and as the dark blue deepens
into purple and purple black
we reflect upon your poems,
which were gurgling streams
cutting through our consciousness.

One never thinks of velvet
when the light is cold and thin
when snow lies deep
and the intense light dazzles the eye,
but your lines were velvet in their
silver light and inky blackness
and we shall remember.

Who will love for the child when the child can’t love?
When the trust that he seeks is so needlessly shattered,
And he’s come to believe that his love doesn’t matter.
Who will love for the loveless child?

Who will cry for the child when the child can’t cry?
When his innocence, like his toys, lay broken,
And his spirit is crushed with a harsh word spoken.
Who will cry for the tearless child?

Who will laugh for the child when the child can’t laugh?
When the laughter he craves turns quickly to fear,
And his smile fades, and his voice disappears.
Who will laugh for the laugh-less child?

Who will care for the child when the child doesn’t care?
When his needs are ignored and his tears fall most freely,
And he shivers when held and clings oh so dearly.
Who will care for the care-less child?

Who will do all of this when the child isn’t able?
Who will offer him love and a place at the table -
To feed and to clothe and to offer him love,
To stand by his side when push comes to shove?
Who will do all of this with a slow, healing hand?
If you’re willing and able….perhaps you can.

I have lived on the cusp
of knowing, and still my days
are filled with
incertitude,
Laughter rings my home
where generations have
gathered,
Flesh and bone betray
and to this day
I cannot make out the faces
that call me brother!
My father fell from grace
the day I was born and
stumbling, perfumed by
the scent of failure
and sweet vermouth,
he made his exit.
I never knew him.
My legs stretch long
before my faltered steps
but they cannot carry me
far enough away.
My dreams are salted and
weathered; my hope reserved
for the scattering of
copper pennies upon foreign
streets.
My only wish is to sleep
through this overture of
nothingness until cool
waters redeem my parched
awakening.

A breaking dawn does not mean
a new day has begun;
my life is spun in hours that
never advance, and I do not
even bother to rise in the mornings
of the whippoorwill.
I am filled with an emptiness
that stretches into nothingness.
and when my name is called
I do not answer.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow…
they are all rolled into my despair,
and I have stopped fighting for a
meaning that never comes.
My brittle bones are ground into
the finest dust, and when the wind
kicks up, I am scattered
through empty streets.
I have surrendered to bouts
of liquid reasoning
for the grave will not dig itself.