Thanks

"This morning you just looked so sad, like you were carrying bricks on your back."
"Thanks."
"I didn't mean it as an insult."
"I know. Thanks for noticing."
"Seriously, if you need to talk about anything, we're here. We care."
"Thanks."

A Jazz Song At Midnight

Every horn has a story
and that’s why I listen
even when I don’t understand
the sound is a good companion

And occasionally when they do
song the words are like folk
songs or spontaneous poetry
about peanuts and funny

valentines. I am alone some-
-times and the world
feels all dark gray
crumbles, the little smile

of fortune temporarily unavailable
unwilling
unaware
disinterested

and then the clock ticks
incessantly moving forth
into the midnight
swell of hearts and heads

and tongues and touch
the little pon ponce dip pon
pon of snare hits, a saxophone
repeating a riff endlessly

the piano walking south
changing tempos
and the coffee steaming
in the kitchen – blackness

outside the window
a car passes
the clink of tires on manhole
alone…awake…desperate for

the sound of that horn
slowly dying
bleeding out into the
darkness.

This Stupid Dream

And there it was, America
on a map,
sprawled out on my desk
surrounded by cups of coffee
and beer bottles
and boring voices of the mind
saying things like,
don't going throwing your life
away on this stupid
dream.

And there was some expl-
-anation about a book
you'd once read
and the awakening in your
consciousness, the time
you stayed up all night walking
from point A to some odd B
and back.

This night time practice
of planning road trips
and never taking them will
drive you mad old boy
no one cares about
cross country mad men
howling into the night

at the saints
gone dead on the
ghostly wind

Beautiful Summer (Poem)

Beautiful night, he said
and uncorked a bottle of wine
while the mosquitoes buzzed
in our ears
and the meat on the grill
reminded me of childhood.

Your legs were tan that summer, we
fought every afternoon when I’d
squint with drunk
and expect you to
understand my every thought

the creek was cold and I’d float in its
salty, muddy water like
a dog panting
smiling
approval.

One night while boiling
those screaming lobsters
you dropped a glass
on the floor
and it shattered with shrieking
hate across linoleum
and I slammed a screen door
into the yard, burned
brush and searched for kindling

our dog at my bitten
ankles pink tongued
and breathless
hoping I wasn’t too mad to
forget to feed him.

And the sparkle of
your fear
the taste of the corn we boiled
the cheesecake
for desert and orange lobster flesh
passed unnoticed through my lips
chased by bourbon and breath
spit with words
so angry they
disappeared with regret into
the evergreens in the yard.

That beautiful summer when
we raced out into the white capped
ocean on Sunday mornings
after an apology walk
you watching me splash
and toss sand like a child
raised to be alone.

A Conversation In A Bar

On the surface of every situation things seem ungodly and complex. What you don't know always has a way of being like that. But, when you delve a little deeper things seem to simplify and settle like water on a pond. On Thursday I went out and had a few drinks alone at the bar. I do that, that's my thing. I ended up in a conversation with a woman who's husband or boyfriend or something in between had just left, she said she came home from work and the apartment was just empty of his things. She said, "if I see that son-of-a-bitch again I swear I'll shoot him in the dick."

She had a revolver she carried in her boot. She showed it to me. Her legs were worn and covered in varicose veins. She looked a little used up. Her eye make up was thick and her front teeth crooked in on each other. She was the kind of woman you find when you lose hope and then she hands it back to you with one sad look. Her man left because, she said, "he was no good for anything piece of ratshit," and she wasn't going to miss him none.

Behind the bar there was an old fashioned cash register that was just on display, it served absolutely no purpose other than to give the place a feeling of authenticity. I ordered a whiskey on ice and a side of water. I ordered her a whiskey neat and a side of soda. We talked a while, the things I said seemed so trite that I finally fell silent and mixed my drink with my index finger.

She asked me where I lived. I lied, but I told her with the conviction of a man running for office. She asked if I was married, I lied again, told her I was. She asked, "are you a good man to her?" And I said, I was when she deserved it. I was entering into my western mode, my rugged individual beat 42nd Street hustler persona. I hit her when she's out of line, I said.

She said she hoped that wasn't true. I said, well, and then downed the rest of my drink. I said good night, paid for hers and mine and walked back outside, breathing in the fresh air when I hit the street. At home I slipped a Woody Allen DVD in and sat on my couch counting his stammers as I sat restless on another lonely night.

Awkward

An awkward existence. Even the word itself. Awkward being awkward. Looking awkward. Just the whole damn idea, awkward.

Morning til Night

I wake up and the traffic is already slamming before I even leave the house, I know because I flip on the news. My head is swimming still from rough dreams, too much booze the night before and a bad case of the poorly place pillow syndrome i have been suffering lately. This is life so far, figuring out how to stay above water, play when i can and dream about doing something that i'd define as freedom. My parents call sometimes and I zone them out.

The sun is so hot that the apartment is already reaching a peak daily temperature. i shower, shave poorly and walk to the bus stop wishing there were a subway here. The memories of subways is stairs and people's legs, big gusts of cold air and grimy concrete. This is what i might need to get me through the day. In my New York life a hangover was easy to sweat out, here it feels like agony, everyone a fitness freak with a smile.

I could skip the bus, fire the engine up on my car and just drive back, leave today be there in a week. Find a new life and rebuild, i've done it before. It's impossible to feel settled when you're constantly haunted by dreaminess.

The Porch

In the morning there are boots at the end of my bed and they're min, but they look unfamiliar. I get up and wash my face, dress in the dark and walk out on the porch. The weather has taken a turn and the air feels like the inside of bag left sitting in the sun. In the distance the woods stand at attention slightly weighted down by morning dew. I go back inside but leave the door open. My dog is lying on his side by the coffee maker. He looks up for a moment and then drops his head back down on his front legs. I brew coffee, light the stove and make eggs. Everything smells like it should. The dog follows me back outside, steps off the porch and takes a leak. I am sure there are things I should do today, there were things to do yesterday too, but I will continue to ignore them. It's nice that no one comes out here too often. I guess you could say I am hiding. I guess you could say I am letting life pass me bye. I guess you could quote some famous song that would urge me to get back in the game. But, I am not sure I want to get in any game.

In the afternoons, when the sun is at it's hottest, I leave the porch for the first time, a pile of empties by the door. The dog follows me. We walk straight into the woods and pick up the path that starts a half of a mile in. We follow the path, I run my hand through the dried ferns. And then the waterfall appears. I strip. I walk slowly into the cold water and the dog follows. We both swim in circles, counter to each other, passing after each lap, his head just above the surface and an unmistakable grin stretches across his canine mug. It's enough to almost make me grin.

After the exercise I dress and walk back to the house. The dog stops every thirty or so to shake off and shake it's tail. When I clear the woods I notice the visitor. My brother comes once a month with mail. He isn't smiling so I don't smile either. He doesn't judge me out loud, but he looks at me like he's ready to give me the chair. He says, nice beard, i could pick you up some razors.

I don't feel like arguing so i just wave my hand at him, go back to the porch and lay down. He sits down next to me and says, she came by the store, wanted to know how you were doing.

You want a beer? I asked.

He didn't move. We sat in silence, he petting the dog and me letting the sun dry my hair. The mail wasn't important. No bills, no personal letters. Just a bank statement and an appointment reminder from the dentist. He tried to talk again, but i rolled away from him, leaving the dog staring at his face. He's my little brother. He feels sorry for me. I haven't spoken much since New Year's eve. It's June now.

He sits there for an hour sunning himself and having a beer. Finally he says goodbye, walks to his truck and drives off. The dog goes into the house and lays down on the cold tile. I roll onto my back and have another beer. The sun is setting and the sky turns purple like a bruise.

Pedestrians and Eye Contact

This is the story of the afternoon before the day before yesterday. So, two days ago. I was walking home. I was on my way on my normal route, going by the bus stop, seeing the old white homeless man muttering to himself that I see everyday, giving him some change, then walking on. I was hungry and wanted a beer and so I went into a bar and ordered a turkey burger and a light beer. I'd been stress eating lately and was now trying to drop a few pounds. Trying to drop a few pounds without actually changing anything about the way I was doing things. I liked living in New York City. I liked walking aimlessly and trying to make eye contact with strangers. It was nice to pretend that I could connect with those people. Win a heart or friend. See that's what life had become for me. Life had become this constant contest to prove that I could make everyone and anyone like me. Which led me into that bar and into a deep conversation with a slightly good looking blond who kept stepping outside for cigarettes and spoke in hypothetical situations. She had no job, one ex-husband, a ring on her finger and slightly yellowed teeth. I drank rum, she vodka, we laughed and ended up taking a walk. She led me straight to her apartment, we went inside and started in on what people do when they meet and get drunk at a bar. When, from the closet, came a man with a baseball bat who beat me, took my wallet, and then forcibly removed me from the building. I woke up in the hospital and they called my girlfriend. I don't really know if we connected, but we shared a moment, the guy with the bat. Like he knew me for a second. That's my story.

this morning...

This morning when you left for work and locked the door and I heard your footsteps trailing off down the hallway, I got out of bed and did fifteen minutes of situps and then went back to bed sweaty. You couldn't see me, but I really worked up a lather. The next thing I did was sleep until the room was unbearably hot. At that moment I rose from slumber, opened all the doors, played my music too loud, showered, dressed and walked down the street for a coffee.