wine

upright

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

change,
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
forgetful
crisp, I write this. and sure,
I may have gambled
and drank this sunday away, but
like upright to ape, tomorrow
I’ll change.

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first dates are tough for a someone like me

she looks at you from across a
slatted
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
her

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

ripped screen

it’s a nice afternoon, windows
open in my apartment. have a bottle
of syrah, open. trying to
write the next great one but
my head bobs. pet sounds plays
from some bookshelf speakers
behind me. look over to my
left, to that open window, just
above the foot of my bed. the
cord lays on the windowsill,
drawn down to a bend and
forlorn. the

screen has torn away from the
frame on the outside. the
intermittent breeze carries
it up then lets it back
down. should do something
about that, perhaps some
tape, not too much, just at
the edge to keep it in
place. or maybe some glue. but
I wrack my brain if I have either
one of those two. take a sip

of syrah from the bottle and
look back over. “God only
knows” plays. that screen is
all I can think about. a
wasp buzzes back and forth
in front of the flap. thoughts
of gluing or taping the screen
down diminish. the wasp may

get in, may not, but the
tension is a perfect pairing to
to this half a bottle and
trying to figure out which
odds are better, getting stung
or
writing the next
great one.

2/3rds

2/3rds into a bottle of cheap cab,
I gaze over to my phone hoping that
a beautiful woman will text me but
that won’t happen. so, i’ll pretend
to be a poet as my senses go all
abstract and pure-

keep thinking back on that moment earlier
at a local coffeeshop. feet propped up
on a metal chair, the sun baking my
brains while reading a k. dick book

that

bakes my brains. look up and see four
young bucks on bikes stopping at the
intersection, the one in the back yells,

“hey, where are we going?”
leader of the pack says,
“to get some ice cream!”

then see a man, probably early twenties,
on bike crossing the other side. pull
sunglasses off and flip them, peer into
puffy eyed self and say:

“I know you want to be part of this, but if
you get on a bike, the burnt out cilia will
make you think twice. just go home bucko,
drink those lesser grapes, light another smoke
and stare at that phone that will never buzz a
brunette beauty begging for your company.”