Steps coming down the stairs.

Last Rites

Maybe you could tell me. The steps coming down the stairs. Your shoulders shaking. Too many pills. Chasing you down the boulevaard. Maybe it was something I ate for Christmas.

Listening to each other. The last syllable hangs in the air. Help you on with your jacket. You ask. Did you tip the waiter. I return to the booth. For my teeth. They’re still talking.

Maybe you could die. And I could start over. I’d divorce the first woman I married. And go through the bitter redress of my complaints. You get the children. You get the house. You get whatever is in our accounts. I get the last breath. From your lungs.

Why does life leave you. Feeling used. And worn out. I can hear the feet going down the stairs. Its Christmas morning. And the kids are laughing.

The President is handsome. Aren’t they all.

A Quickie In The Shade

Eves dripping. With heat. Dog in the street. The hair over his paws. Stuck to the tar.

She was born. Overweight. Spend her adult life. Worried about her ankles.

A quarter. Lay on the sidewalk. A snail crawled over the face of the Queen.

The scars from the war. Were still waking him up. In the alley. Between those condominiums that were being renovated.

The President is handsome. Aren’t they all.

The t-shirt is stuck to my skin. Won’t come off. Without the use of an Exacto knife. My tears are turning into steam. And the way she looks at me. Is the last thing I can afford.

Except for the Cymbalta

Sunny Afternoons In My Basement

Buying lottery tickets. That’s optimism. For the 21st century. I can smell. Ovaries frying. And I know that somewhere in this house. A pipe is waiting. To burst. And what’s worse. Something is eating a hole. In my head.

My wife is in the kitchen. Cutting vegetables. The children are out there. In the world. And my friend told me. That he spends his retirement. Laying around the house. Masturbating. I almost split a gut.

There are too many names in my head. PINS. Like a cushion. I should be terrified. Except for the Cymbalta. And a friend. In the Nut House told me. That insanity is not all that its cracked up to be.

the owner wants to go home

Nicole

Her face is so sweet. Her mother is crying on the phone. I’m doing the best I can. (Is that true?)  And the Fire Department stepped in. Just a routine examination. Of your state of mind. I’m afraid of what she’s considering. And what would that be. I’d rather not say. Cutting her wrists.

Lovers dancing. Four o’clock in the morning. And the owner wants to go home. I don’t care how much you pay me. Romance doesn’t wake me up at nine. My wife isn’t crazy about these hours. You two should get a room. Better yet. What if I sold you the place.

One. Reason. For looking deeply. Into myself. I tried it when I was 17. And couldn’t find anything. But a small boy. In the corner of his room. Shaking.

And at 14. I met a girl. Her name was Francine. She said she dreamed about hanging herself. We cut our initials into a tree.

Why isn’t this enough?

‘When holy men and women died, their power lived on in their relics (whatever they left behind: their bones, hair, clothes, sometimes even the dust from their tombs). In the fourth century, pious people knew this very well. They wanted access to these “special dead”.’ (A Short History of the Middle Ages, Barbara H. Rosenwein)

Today, we have memoribilia. From hockey players to serial killers. These are our saints and sinners. But it isn’t just people who do good or evil things. It is also people who are honoured for doing nothing of importance. Saint Symeon Stylites,  who stayed up the top of pillars for decades, was revered. Something like the Kardashians. What is it that they have done?

But why? Why do people worship these people? Why do they collect autographs, souvenirs, join clubs, etc.?  It seems like there is some need in the human psyche for transcendence. To believe that there is something more to this existence than the here and now.

Why isn’t this enough?

Like a Paris sewer

Souvenirs From Hell

Black streets. Rain wet. Raincoat. High heels. They’re playing Frank Sinatra. In one of the apartment. Balconies. I feel like I must be in New Jersey. You know this isn’t going any place. But professional.

You quote me. Dante. And I ask you what’s the view like. Underneath all that make-up. I thought you were originally from Pakistan. But it was Buffalo. New York. You’re a nurse in your other life.

You want me to be your pimp. After several weeks. You like the sound of one man’s fist. Against another’s ribs. I won’t have to do much. Just keep an eye. On the cat. And collect the rent. From the naked john’s. And occasionally. Give you a slap.

My bluff has been called. I don’t want to live in the street. I don’t have the stomach. For the company. And I don’t like the smell. Of the cash box. Like a Paris sewer. And the safe’s all stuck to the wall. Like souvenirs. From hell.

Behind the closed door

The Poisoned Episode

How about stopping. Making me feel guilty. For every crime that has been committed. Since this morning. I began to really look at you. Your chest is flat. And I’m broke.

I can hear the tinsel. Hit the floor. There’s a string hanging out. Of the ass of the cat. Another Christmas tale. Some of the ornaments were broken. Splinters of glass in my feet. Are you still angry?

Cigarette smoke. Hangs around the room. Like in-laws. Stains on the bathroom mirror. An old rag stuck in the screen. I keep watching the same episode. Of Seinfeld. George’s fiance is poisoned. And you’re in the bathroom. Behind the closed door. Screaming.

There must be a special home

Drinking Buddies

Buck teeth. I guess they wouldn’t say a girl was beautiful. But I couldn’t get my mind off your smile. When you were looking. Near me. Someone please forgive me. For even writing about. Things that happened so long ago.

Parallel worlds. Would I have had the nerve. To have stepped inside your story. Would we have separated. Soon thereafter. And become a name in a long list. I can almost smell. Our intercourse.

There must be a special home. For old men. Who still pine. For a life they never lived. But I have to wonder if my liver. Would have outlived. Yours.

First Thought Every Morning

First Thought Every Morning

Who’s that crazy woman in the street. The one with the sweater on fire. Calling up to your room. You coward. Her voice slaps your open window. And you slap. The alarm clock. And curse.

Another dream. Why can’t you forget her. Why isn’t one dream enough for you to spit her out. And what was it that you did. To deserve. Was it something inside you. That makes you feel so… Catholic. I never did anything. I’m innocent. There was no original sin. And if you give me five more minutes.

Some kids stole my bicycle

His First Name Was Colon

His first name was Colon. Semi. Bad jokes prosper in an envious state of mind. Handsome. President of the student. Council. Put his arm around my shoulder. (When did we become friends?) Dave, I don’t know what I want to do with my life.

Married a blonde. 3 kids. Divorced a blonde. President of an insurance company. That wouldn’t pay me. When some kids stole my bicycle.