been meaning

I’ve got a christmas tree in a box in
my kitchen that I’ve been meaning to
throw out months ago. I’ve got a
purple discolored toe that I smashed
into the leg of my red barstool which
I’ve been meaning to put in a splint a
couple of days ago. been meaning
to do a lot of things lately, but

bourbon keeps me pacified like
child in some state that I’ve
moved away from a couple of times-

been meaning to move away again
for awhile now.


another midwestern summer’s night

it’s six thirty and the sun is still
high on this fourth day of summer. my
brains bake with little water and more
bourbon and an oven at four fifty with
a homemade pizza circular, stationary,

I sweat, type. I
cook, thinking about ice sheets, and dream
of a self, dull blade in hand,
shearing off the tops to fill my glass
and spreading my breath;
a dense fog, wafting
glacious and slowly filling a

castor and pollux

you’ve always been conjoined, gemini.

a starling’s beak dipped in the spiral
of sprawl born in instantaneous flash
a mash stagger of cotton draped flesh in
mesh of concrete, steel and sewer.


ever wins out as gravity shrinks your
final doorway pencil mark back down
to the floor boards, to



oh, friday. it was one of those
rare American Spirit in
cratered husk, a
three thirty am flicker combust of
steadfast thought, fucking

grow up! groped my depressed
delve- this a few hours
after having my
cock in a strange woman’s mouth, her
bent black
bodysuit. envisioned the

really I did. felt that warm wave
wash over me and two days later
it keeps, like
canned food, or jam, or a coward’s
perceived courage.


so, on the eve of my vapid
vasectomy, I clean my hitter with
a bent prong fork and twist in
the last of eighth. I put down
the last of the whisky in green
sleeve, and manhandle the cork,
the last pop of
mutt wine. as

freshly peeled sweet
potatoes bake in oven to stoned
crisp, I write this. and sure,
I may have gambled
and drank this sunday away, but
like upright to ape, tomorrow
I’ll change.

three dreams

three dreams in
three consecutive nights:

my niece, now five or so, looks
up at the clear blue. “there’s a
flashight in the sky,” she says. I
look up at this flashlight, it
flickers brighter and brighter, till
it streaks across, a trail of
heavy smoke behind and it hits off
in the distance. the shockwave

walking through an empty amusement
park with my father at night- along
the boardwalk between a carousel
with faded horses and a
wooden roller coaster that hasn’t
seen a smiling face in years. there’s
a loud rumbling, we both look up
to see the moon fall. a tidal wave
the size of a skyscraper crests
above us.

in a room that has peach
colored walls. my head is resting
on my lover’s pregnant belly. curtains
curling in a soft yellow breeze. her
hands run through my thinning
hair. everything is silent.

I know what these dreams mean.

dead stem

a caricature of what your parents
wanted you to be. but this is
a conscious childless. this is
fighting all
the addictions that were
in inheritance;

gambling itch
eighty proof professor
tar plumes
drunk tank
a few wives to divorce
mental illness

it’s not a tree, it’s a
frail brown stem- and I want
no part of it.

first dates are tough for a someone like me

she looks at you from across a
metal table, her full glass of
white and your emptying glass
of rye. she waits. you

could tell her that you’ve only
seen your father cry three times in
your entire life. or that your

mother didn’t talk about that
great human bind called
emotion. or you could tell

about the grandparents you
barely knew- except that
strange memory of an Itlalian
Grandfather towering above you
in a Denver airport terminal,
a spectre in a black
leather jacket. you could tell

her about the other women. the
ones that only ever appeared to
you as dead skin cells in a
beam of light. you could tell
her that

you’d rather be alone in
muted pessimism. or, you
could ask

where she works and use all of
those tired muscles to lift up
your lips, showing at least five
teeth as she