Monday, August 3, 2015



--THANK YOU FOR BEING A FRIEND


…I had this story published in LitroNY the other day:


…James Tate died a couple of weeks ago.  My writer friends on Facebook did all sorts of post about his death.  I had never heard of him, but I just recently bought his poetry collection and have been reading it all weekend.  He has a different style.  Mostly it’s a blend of straight-forward writing mixed in obscurity.  It’s not my favorite type of poetry, but intriguing nonetheless.  He won A Pulitzer Prized for his work, so he must be talented, right?  Anyway, he spurred me on to write some things, which I was hoping for.  Here’s what came out over the weekend.



 Hydrophobia

Did you notice
that the lake is big enough for two
and the water’s warm as baked biscuits?
Waves slop and slosh with the wind;
doesn’t it sound like messy fun?
Every boat is far away.
The sun is a kind, orange blister hanging high.
Overhead in treetops birds chatter and gossip.
Someone shore-side giggles.
My god,
what more could we want?

Yes, I know about that.
It was years ago.
This is today.
Now.
Your sister shouldn’t have taken the boat
out by herself.
It wasn’t your fault.
It wasn’t your fault.
It wasn’t your fault.

Here, take my hand.
Please?
Did you notice I said please?
Thank you.
Now, just one toe after the other.
That’s it.
When you’re ready for more
I’ll be ready, too.




Fire-eater

Over the weekend I have become bold and spontaneous.
Did you notice?
The glasses are all nicely shattered on the tiled kitchen floor
and every plate is a rubble of shards and dust.
The windows will be next to go,
then I’ll have to decide about these walls.
Look, even your cat fears me now,
hissing like a tire under the sofa.
The real test will be your mother.
She always said I lacked moxie,
that I was a timid toad afraid of my own shadow
and yours as well.
We’ll see.
I shan’t throw nary a thing her way,
nor lay a hand on her.
I’ve been practicing the art of fire-eating
and if all goes well
I’ll have it down by the time she gets here
and I show her how I can spew flames across the room.




Shadowboxer

It is indeed exhausting
the way each day finds me
shadowboxing myself,
face beet-red,
soupy with rank sweat,
tossing a jab here,
an uppercut there,
until my arms are railroad ties
that can no longer be lifted
even if the referee was to declare me victor,
even if I’d finally out-gunned
my regrets for once.




Terrorism Right Here At Home

My son says cops are the real terrorists.
“Here, just look at this,” he says, holding his phone out
so I can see the grainy video of police officers
throwing a black teenager on the ground
while stomping on his head repeatedly without mercy.
“There’s more,” my son says.
I wave him off. 
I feel queasy and guilty for some reason.
“312 African Americans have been killed by cops so far this year.
312!  And it’s only July!”
He waits for me to reply, but I don’t know what to say
any more than I did when he was a toddler and
his mother passed away.
Finally I offer up, “It’s awful.”
He smiles then, for the first time in years.
“Yeah,” he says, “And they’re going to pay.”




Try Again

My daughter is looking for answers in
a glass ball of black ink.
For Sure.
Someday.
Maybe.
Definitely.
Try Again.
I say, “Everybody’s good at something.  What
are you good at?”
Without hesitating, my daughter says, “Blowjobs.”
This is how it goes without a wife for me,
without a mother for her—
orphaned idiots.
This house is a cavern and there are things
 neither of us wants to know.
“We could go to a show,” I say.  “Movie and popcorn, gummy bears. 
“Everything sucks,” she says, her bangs a purple mop draped over her face
as she leans so close to the black ball she’s almost licking it.
“Well then, what make you happy?”
“Blowjobs.”
I’m ready for this.  We know each other well and not so well.
“Why?”
“Because I’m good at them.  At least that’s what they say.”
I come across the kitchen table and
take the chair next to her,
waiting until she looks up, looks me in the eye.
“What?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.  “Let’s start there.”




The Kid On The Bus

has dreadlocks--
wispy orange coils that sprout and loop,
that look as if they haven’t been washed for weeks,
that look like termites might be foraging in them,
tearing down a house or the rain forest.
Around his ears he has headphones padded the size of a
toddler’s catcher mitt, though no sound escapes,
yet he writhes and sways in his seat across the aisle from mine.
He’s new, this one.  I’ve never seen him,
And still he’s the happiest person on this prison ride to the city.
He looks nothing like Sam,
yet I wonder where my son is,
what he’s doing at this exact minute,
if he’s content,
if he ever thinks of me,
or considers coming back to make amends,
restoring our family.
When I look back the kid catches my eye,
pulls one embellished headphone off his ear and asks if I said something.
I tell him, “No.”




A Change of Seasons

That summer
the winds took everything away,
every leaf plucked free like untethered goose down,
tumbleweed rolling across the highway like bony gymnasts,
pine cones clattering off windshields, though,
as I say, it was summer.
And then the sleet and hail came,
hail the size of hacky sacks and stone-hard,
breaking windows and denting doors, cars, the city center statue of Robert E. Lee.
We said our prayers.
We talked of Armageddon. 
When fall finally arrived
the world regrew
like a time lapse fast-forwarded:
Shwwiffttt!...Shwwiffttt!...Shwwiffttt!
We said our prayers.
We watched Mother’s boyfriend drive off in a
white-finned ’63 Caddy convertible,
taking everything he wanted with him,
the front seat empty yet loaded.
We watched the taillights wink away.
We watched for any sign of return.
We watched the street
for the rest of that fall
and into the winter.



The Man Across The Lake

has a rifle that he points my way
whenever I am shoreside.
It’s a small lake.
I can almost make out the color of his eyes,
and sound carries well.
When I ask why the gun,
he claims I’m an interloper
and so I have to go inside to look up the word.
“But this was my grandfather’s cabin,” I yell at him across the wobbly water.
“Get off this land or I’ll shoot you sure as hell.”
Something in his expression,
his fixed gaze sighting the gun
looks familiar
and I remember finding the Polaroids
of Grandpa and that man--
his lover,
touching in nearly every photograph,
though nothing than if they were friends.
“You’re him,” I say.  “The man in the pictures.”
I hear a click then,
echoing from the other side of the lake
as I start to sprint.



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