Dining Room Table Wipe Out

Elbows off the table. Move your plate. Use your fork. Can we not talk about poop tonight? We convene around the tables that deliver us from the dirt. Pinch fuzz from gashed vinyl chairs on curved chrome legs. Pick at fleshy cigarette scars. Two-seaters shoved against the wall. Petrified dinosaurs in dark parlors Pledged every second Sunday. We gather to just sit if we can, to eat with our intimate strangers.  

My memory is a faulty, cocky thing creating some  blissful narrative out of spit and tape. We were under the influence, mer-people, guided by whiskey effulgence to reproduce our genes, twice. pure lunacy carried on a stabalized flight; civilized, glacial grinding of marital silence. But we're laughing now as little C screams I gotta go to the dam bathroom! landing the punchline to a beaver joke right in our laps as she exits bolstered by such an innocent lapse. I am certain that our table has eyes and remains with us due to some architectural fiat embedded in its grain.
Erosion. Spills, eraser crumbs brushed and blown expose raw blonde wood wiped down to the layer of last year's glitter.
Meals born in the morning, nursed all afternoon. Meals prepared together, thrown together with joy, with expertise, as an afterthought to last night’s fight, still resonating, unresolved in minor D. The low hanging lamp over our table reveals a scene: Reaching, passing, pouring the water that keeps us alive. My family bathed in pool hall light, restores the faith I cripple over the day.

Plate the food; steam rising

8 feet and 250 pounds solid Mexican pine.
Time lapse, each hour a season of coffee cups, bills and backpacks. Dull pencils and papers to sign. Exhausted bottles of wine--bulldozed every night to make way for the main event.
My son curved over the cutting board, thack-thack-thack like a knocked up metronomic ritual. He'll soon be a head and a half taller than I am, extending his long arm over my shoulder to palm 4 heavy dinner plates with a pre-adolescent mitt. ‘Scuse me Dad, he’ll say.  One day he’ll gulp the thin air on which the tenuous contract between parent and child exists. He’ll never ask permission then, ever again.
Pentecostal jazz.
We thank the cook with trembling hands but the humble cook demurs, don’t thank me, I just applied the heat. So we thank the rain, the farmers and my son, once, learning to cuss, asks, What about the fucking truck drivers?
I'm impressed. But, I say, There are better ways.
He says, What about the fucking truck drivers, please?
And we unleash a litany of every natural phenomena even vaguely connected to the food on our table: Sub-atomic elemental mechanics of evolution; the reproductive zeal of our civilized ancestors; durable seeds and delicious animals so capably domesticated.

cut up

Soviet progress
measured by the ton
10 lb tampons
falling chandeliers

The girl and I make the corn bread. The lady made the beans. The four of us sit and eat and laugh at the boy’s awful jokes. I get to lay down with her, the lady, and wake up again, knowing that she loves me.

Whodunnit

11/8/14

I have a son. Who seems strange to me, a stranger even. I’m afraid I’m doing everything wrong. Or maybe not enough of anything as he disappears into his bedroom without saying goodnight. The boy doesn't ever ask for anything but I know he wants to go fishing.  On the surface our relationship, if a little awkward at times, seems relatively healthy. We talk and laugh and I pack his lunch in the morning. I’m interested in him, in what he has to say. I’m perplexed at how sharp he is, never fully comfortable or certain that he’s just a normal kid. I make sure he knows he is appreciated and as much as I can, that he is loved. And... here it goes. 

My father hauled miscellaneous dangerous goods from Columbus, Ohio to St. Louis, Missouri for Chief Freight Lines. His handle was "Short Ribs." Mine was "The Baseball Bandit."   The languorous threat of violence that pulsated from my Mom I could predict and avoid.  But it was a chore to solve for my Dad's random wrath. He split when I was in 5^th grade, a little younger than the boy is now.  I craved his attention and approval even more after he left and when he didn't deliver, I turned to the men that my mom began to date. It was a sickening lack of loyalty on my part, allowing strange young men to sit on the couch where my dad existed during his short stints at home, eating, snoring, catching up on General Hospital. 

Weekends I spent with step-mom. The aptly named Barb was a hard and loud woman who revealed to my mom, in our front  yard, her very special relationship to my father as he ducked into the passenger seat of her yellow Dodge Omni, the one with those bitchin' rear/side window louvers.  Dad and I watched her straddle behind her own son to commence the ritual brushing of his waist-length dark auburn hair, which would last through an entire Bugs Bunny/Road Runner show deep into the Saturday morning lineup. Butch ate cereal while being brushed,  disappearing now and then into the apartment complex to deliver tiny Ziploc cocaines.  

I was a whore. And it never paid off. My solicitations earned nothing. What a lost and ridiculous boy. I waited years before I unleashed the bitterness on my mom. When we were finally alone. When she had finally rid herself of one last disappointing man, I became the monster I should have been years before.

So I take the boy fishing.

The Baron

10/25/14

            Baron the barista thought he had won again. But you could forgive him this time. The girl had the persistent problem of losing track, of staring at objects not as they were traditionally, but differently, and intensely as impressions and shapes. Colors not animated by anything she would call human, but moving independently nonetheless.  She would obsess over these shapes: groups of things, patches of dead grass, building facades; but more often what caught her eye was the face. And so as she pays for her coffee, she looks at what is the upper right quadrant of the barista’s face, how it squinted like the squat penis of the chubby high school counselor she slept with in high school. And though her true senses fixate on the erotic patch of skin at the angle of his chin where there is no trace of stubble, her secondary senses, dulled by neglect; senses that compel us to  finally release the hand of the stranger we have just met—these senses quietly urged her to look away.  But she could not. And when the barista, who called himself The Baron, caught her stare, the electro-thump pumping through the cafe speakers became his  own personal soundtrack. It seeped into the foreground inspiring high pours and behind the back theatrics. He announced his drinks as if he were narrating a documentary.  The cashier placed change in her hand which reminded the girl vaguely of the world outside the world she existed in at this moment, which was populated explicitly by The Baron’s nose.  She dropped the change in her purse. Just one nose that provided enough canvas for an entirely new person, an additional face on The Baron’s face. Light struggled to escape the vacuum of its blown out pores. This was a living, breathing entity that deserved autonomy, independence, women’s suffrage. Revolutionary lines traced this appendage-creature like a Mexican mountain road.  The Baron pretended he was alone, a rebel working in the confines of a corporate structure, but her intense attention forced him to check his fly and thumb that nose like a feather weight boxer.  It moves, she said to herself, which broke the spell. The Baron called her latte.  The back of his neck tingled as he recited the exotic name that was written on the cup. He leaned toward and pointed to his ear.  “What’re you listening to?” She watched his two lips move underneath that nose and just a moment too late, nodded and said “Thanks.”     

Sir Sparky Kaspersky

10/24/14

            He stepped into the light. He stepped out into the light. He took another step. He stepped again. Counting his steps he began to walk. He chose a point in the distance, the tallest tree he could see, and walked toward the tree, hoping that when he arrived there would be some other concrete noun that would make sense as a new destination. Counting steps with the conversation looping in his head. When he arrived at the tree, nothing had changed. He looked around for another destination; the clouds ran over the sun, crushed Styrofoam pulsed like a beacon. It’s time to go back now she said, taking his hand, we’ll do it again tomorrow.

Belated Birthdays

10/19/14

perilous lives of uncles and aunts, 
glowing neon nostalgia, 
curvaceous and mean. 
they must go… 
good god, we all must, 
as the sno cone melts, 
Cornelio sputters
about there was a time,
and my narcoti-sized mind wades in the words and his breath.
We settle, 
nest 
within these tentacled sheets
where burglar bars threaten to burn us alive.
 my little girl struts in her mother’s shoes, 
and I pray she breaks every little heart that comes her way.  
mid-life with children. 
distance and death, 
promise of life,
fully baked 
angel food box cake, 
3 candles short
11 days late

Sounds Thinking

friction factors
interest rate translates commitment
Does your pain inflame nostalgia, confounded
nonproductive pump. stumbling self-consciousness,
when I begin to breed confidence I will sell it for a dollar
and the blue eyed dude, whose eyes are turning white, sends a picture that says 
wait. the refrigerator is leaking. the house is peeling
revealing 
your future. Look! 
a snail on a unicycle,
bats on big-wheels. innocent insects?  
at least a little of the life force underfoot,
(crunch, captain.)
honk bzz & beep real life; you go on without me.
Beyond my shoulder, I create anti-masterpieces. 

a simple challenge from C brings my fingers to keys,

makes my mind work again in the old fashion.
Sitting at my desk 90,000 dollars in debt 
wandering weather,
(it’s such a chocolate world)
wondering whether 
I will ever say oh,
that’s who I am.

Pick Up Your Own Damn Pieces

 her eyes burn savage, her lips go thin,
the love that buffers this hard sweet life
clocks her on the chin, revealing merciless 
glistening flesh, reduced to this, peeling away 
the frame. we could destroy and rebuild
and never be safe again, he said, sadly—
but with a grin. that's just what he was,
a petulant fog, an itching phantom limb.
did she ever look back? there's no fucking way—
the door missed her ass by a mile. unwilling
to host any lingering ghosts, she fucked
that note sincerely, protecting her delicate
architecture with a drunken bombardier.

Ol' Whatzername

Got a phone call from the captain says my ship is comin' in
but the phone is in the bathtub and the bathtub’s full of gin

livin on saltines,
sardines and day old
bacon grease
bet my bottom dollar on a
johnny walker neat
never took no pictures cause we never went nowhere
breathing in her pillow cause it smells like her hair

one-two split-tooth
smile like a clown
toe nails glowing red on the gas pedal
cranked on crank,
AC blow dry curls still adrip from the shower
eternal straight stretch whispers 95, 97, 110

she could stop traffic that girl

scene cleaners
pressure wash
bits of my dear
down drain, downstream
among catfish and eel.
raw deal
bum squeal
net worth
zilch.
final words was some shit about the bills

mama makin ground smashin muscle into bone
pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake
she ain't ever comin home

She taught me to sing
Sweet as hell. tongue
pokin' out when she did up her hair.

Looked at me
like the looks
I've seen  people
with headphones
alone with what's in their head

(and her eyes were the deepest...)
morning and night
I call her name
I test her name.
embarrassed as hell
to inflect
the end of her name.

And then one day
you’ll never believe
I couldn’t tell a thing.
The curve of her neck?
Which side the tattoo?

(and her eyes were the deepest...)
Her eyes so green.
Her eyes were brown or blue?

Father & Son

The Father and I
get canonized huffing
mineral spirits.
We could teach benediction to the
Coin-trick Saint! he revelates to his palms, to
just shy of 75
aspirant
Brides of Christ who gather
afield kicking
serious shit-storms of doubt, dirt
and dance til they are spent,
lying in a heap,
translating the percussion of settling dust:
You
done
good,
one begins, then 3 and 10,
'til all harbor the same stimuli--
yet mine comes out like this?
My first and final vow:
I love you. In fact.
In fiction

The Old Business

you got to sing,
he whistled.
kiss the sunkist cement
come spring, he hummed.
When the hell everything get
so bright, he blinks.
so bright, such bold
minor chord
lamentations...
Remember?
When sweet trouble stuck to your boot,
gathered hard
and cracked
underfoot
on ashen pavement?

The signs are buckshot and conflict:
tea leaves & hard candy
shards
politely insist:
Songs were hopeful
then. men
who fit in
were recognized 
when they arrived.
Music and food and your neighbors,
nothing was foreign to him.
People he never imagined:
strangers, demanding,
amplified tragedies, erect
flagpoles shrinking in the
ever-expanding radius.
Decisions pressing
flesh,
baring teeth,
smiling.

The Crack of Don

Banana split dreams
and directions to a gold mine
My sheets are
twistin' in the wind,
flap and snap
and fins and skin
big blown bellies on the clothesline.
Banana split sea, westerly
wind on the ass end.
In the water in the sink
brass monkeys tinkle and clink
canines rippin, drippin pink
flesh of over-ripened bovine.

Don's Lincoln Town Car
got as far as
Sharyland
then quit by the Dairy Queen Don
used to work
til when that jerk-off showed him the gun.
Was a Saturday black hole
before dinner dusk
rush buzzing on the radar, but
just him and Javier
and the
minute this guy jingles in
I thought, shit, this
is not going to be one of your normal transactions.
This kid's hunger went off menu,
which is a good in some.  But,
he shoots a glance
to the white-hairs in the corner, tongue-probing
dip cones, and
says all twitchy:
gimme a large Big Red, large.
Fuck the DQ man, let him have the money.
Fuck this punk too, though
tapping the counter with the pants slung low--
Don playing pin the
finger on the magic key,
mumbling Castaneda incantations--
which,
when invoked (via gunmetal ting)
unbuckled "Belt Buster"
at the time,
Don's brutal,
conclusive
alter-ego

jackass

Walking to work
October sun punched face, circa waste
water puddles
reflect the occasional south Texas scrub,
above,
institutional green leaves
hang on withering to bits like tobacco.
natural patches of dead grasses
arm the neighborhood against tender feet.
From scorched earth
cocoa powder dirt
emerge searing flashes of my son,
my sleeping daughter.
daytime canines curve into their eyes 
puncturing each perfect dream

Duet Delusional

I’m honestly quite surprised by your appearance
You gave me every reason to believe…
That I was taller?
Well, no—but, that you were just,
different. The picture
you posted in no way even remotely resembles you...
Yeah well, it was taken a few years back.
No, but I mean it’s not even you. Not
even someone related to you...
Listen—
John...
Sure, o k, John. John?
Do you think you live in a vending machine? Is
what you want stuck in a coil? I mean,
you heard the quarters clink in the collector--
Who’s to say shit can’t change
without your consent?
Yeah?
well,
honey--
I get my first blowjob in the morning while
I’m shavin’ the hair off my face.
I sprinkle lightning bolts in my sneakers
I got aero-planes writin' my name.
10 thousand grams of protein
chug through my slick ass veins
as the clouds divide before me,
I roam the world 5 times in one day.
If the rhinoceros in my boxers
ever lets me get any sleep,
I'll raise my palms to the sky
and tan your milky hide
with a 21 spank salute--
Boom!
She said,
I'm wastin' time here
like a religion.
Wastin’ time,
all the time.
Wastin’ time,
doin’ the things
that I think
that I want
to really think about doin’.
Wastin’ time,
makin’ up dreams about scenes
that I see
me and you
actin like
we just met on the street.
Wastin’ time
searchin for gold
in black shadows of soul
puddled up at my feet.

3-Way

1. Picky. You have always been so picky. Pricky. Ha! Prick. No. But you know what I mean, right?
   
beat

 I mean at first I took it as a sign of confidence? You were like a man, but not ashamed of it? But then, it's like a damn disease, an affliction. Like when you started doin my makeup for me, or when I "ruined" your car.

2. You totalled that car, and that was no fucking car, that was the remaining light in my soul. That you destroyed. Without remorse. And you, with 'Look at me! Not a scratch!' Not even a bruise. Unfuckingbelievable. And yes, I know, I'm supposed to be happy, because it was just a thing right? Or relieved, or something.

1. Asshole. I coulda died.

2. But you didn't. And that didn't stop you from gettin in my car did it? Like it's stopped you from doing every single other fucking thing in your life. A heartbeat's all you need to die, sweetie, slow or sudden. Take your pick.

beat.
    
You at least coulda broke your arm or something.

1. A jewel.

2. What?

1. That's what she looked like. That girl you had that thing with...

2. Oh God, this? How. What, what is the point of bringing this...

1. ...say a ruby, which is cliche I know, but her color, 'cause she was always flush--lifting those steel plates. She looked so damn healthy.

3. Well. I just think you two have made some excellent progress.

2. Dang it, come here Fluffy. Come sit by me. We don't ever touch anymore. That's what it is. Foreign bodies.

1. Ha!

2. You like that one? That's not even my best material.

1. Put it on me.

2. I'd like to try you on right about now.

1. Oh, Tiger Baby.

2. Mi Palomita

beat

 Well, hey man, good luck. And listen. I mean, I don't know what I could possibly do for you, but I'm pretty damn resourceful. So call me if you ever need anything.

Roast Kid

I'm getting fatter
than a fat mad hatter
'cause I eat 10 cakes a day.
My belly's turning jelly,
my toes to sausages,
my eyeballs sinking in their sockets
and my lozenges
are full of sugar.

Sugar...

...full of sugar
in my boogers
gasoline in my spleen,
my marbles searching for the door
you know what I mean.
I meant that I am,
the King of Siam,
and my harem is 300 lovely girls,
who all have guppies,
they treat like puppies
that I will chop, chop, chop, chop, chop
up into chum.
And fill up slippy kiddie pools,
by the stinking bucketful
and dig up the cabrito when it's done,
done.
Done.

Oh, Henry

Thoreau slapped his friend, Emerson's
broad back, said,
Hey Ralphie boy,
I'm checkin' out.
I need a place to lay low,
whaddaya think?
Emerson said, Of course,
this land is your land.
And so the picture of Thoreau:
Freshly calloused fingers
gripping the shaft of Emerson's ax,
cleaving Walden logs.

Heaving a sigh from above,
tracing his length in a breath-frosted window,
Mrs. Emerson gently corrects herself.
Musing on the exchange rate
for just one minute alone with that Henry David...
Well!

The Confession of Dan: An Ode to Fran

Oh Fran, Fran, Franny
I hear sizzle and you shimmy
off that silky piece of nothing you call a
nightie.
I hear a Mexiguatesalvadominican jumble of
Eat me's and Fuck you's and remember
the way they
pricked up like chastised school children when you ran the line.
Ah, hell Franny.
Well into the middle of my campaign for
best vintage Cadillac/coke addiction(critics choice!)
you step down, my running mate.
My recipes were strong enough to endure the split,
my spirit gently declined.
Witness the crumb's descent into gazing Valentina's dark cleavage,
dazzling flecks of cream gravy on Valentino's smooth brown chin.
Reach across the booth into the great
wild tenderness.
Damn, woman.
A proud and lonely heart once stood roost in this busted up cage.
I am not a different man.  I ain't no different from the man you married.
I ain't ever completely believed you
either,
how you got that scar on your back.
Franny, I'm gettin' out. Fifty years is a long time.
I'll end up in the desert, wed to a saguaro.
Take it all.  Consider this legal and binding.
It's just like falling asleep, ain't it?

For C. on Mother's Day

you are the one,
small,
right thing
in the middle of rage.
bone marrow bubbling
in a deep stock pot
pen scritch on notebook paper
Caravaggio's shadows
between note rest

The song came on
inspiring the man
to forge the fork
comes sliding out
outside your mouth
without
the bit of beef
which left a
tender
kiss
of grease
upon your juicy
upper lip. puh.