EASTERN EUROPE

Drink orange juice

Smoke a cigarette

Pay a parking ticket.

Take all of the wedding gifts

From the shelves, replace them with books

The dyslexic memories linger

In a layer of dust.

There is now

A gray photo of my Russian grandfather

Framed in skin colored wood.

I never knew him

And I love him more

Than my useless parents.

I have never travelled

Outside of these United States.

Sunday morning rolls in

With the serenity of a piano’s voice

Those tiny soft hammers

The black and white keys

The smiles of Chernobyl children

Adorn the walls

Of my otherwise

Empty little head.

TIME

My father wore one watch his entire life. The band was gold colored, scraped, It stretched around his hairy wrist Like railroad tracks, a sprig of black hair Poking through each fissure with the wisdom of a weed. The watch face was cheap glass Scratched with tiny trenches In which soldiers huddled From the angry hands That rotated only when he shook his wrist. Batteries were not needed to move the mechanisms of his time. In our living room we’re screaming And fighting, and I’m trying to hug you Squeeze your arms against your body Pin the flailing and fists from beating My oversized chest. In the bedroom, the turtle chokes to death On undigested broccoli As it’s rectum goes prolapsed. I’m shoving my fist through My rubber throat Fingering around for a word To stop the police from banging On the front door. I don’t wear a watch But I remember all of my parent’s fights And how my father chucked his watch Squarely into the kitchen wall Smashing out a chunk of pink paint And drywall. Even after all the violence stopped And the police separated us And took our statement And left us to breath heavily in the damp darkness The watch still ticked. It continued to measure time As it passed around us Leaving us behind.

KING KONG

Lumbering through the streets of downtown

Dragging my knuckles behind me

Leaving trails of blood, bone, and fur.

A sky scraper shoves its thick heel

Straight into my neck, a gloved fist into my gullet

Neon and florescent lights go fuzzy.

Everyone walking by me in monkey suits

Not one of them brave enough to go naked –

An open sewer yawns at my crushed grin.

Granules of trodden tar embedded in my palms.

A capillary thin trail of blood and mucus from my lip.

The pavement has never tasted so sweet.

BLACK SHEEP

I

Anti-Aircraft smiles on the faces of alter boys.

They know that Christ chose staying in the cave

Over showing the world the confines of resurrection.

He muttered fuck world salvation under his beard.

I can get more work done on these rock walls

Using my body as a lantern and my blood as paint

After all, look what I did for Lazarus and ten lepers.

Only one returned to thank me and good old Laz

Didn’t even invite me to his wedding with life.

Judas was a good friend, but I don’t know where he is.

II

And then there was the Phoenix.

It thought about lifting back into the sky

But felt warm and comfortable

Smoldering in ashes, sealed in embers.

What good am I anyway, showing

How I defeated death. Everyone else dies

And so I naturally do not fit in.

I’m gonna keep getting older and watch people

Drop like flies.

That is why everyone shuns me

Because my genuine skill is seen as a magic trick

Everyone secretly hates magic tricks.

III

Oh and the zombies, the walking dead.

They have all folded in on themselves.

If they could talk they would let us know

How hungry they really are and that even the flesh

Of the living doesn’t satisfy their broken bellies.

Lurching will only get them so far.

And grousing never quite communicates

Their sorrowful feelings of loss for life

Taken from them while still trying to act normal.

IV

Let’s not forget about Mr. Mummy over here.

He woke up from a really deep sleep

Because some dumb ass verbalized cantations

And wammo! he’s got to sit up, lift from his sarcophagus

Shake the grogginess from his melted eyes

Stick his hands out and groan

Constantly worrying if he’s going

To trip over his draped bandages.

All tripping will do is instigate

Obnoxious laughter from everyone.

V

Finally, there is Set in the West

With his burly red beard and stringy hair

Blowing orange sand all over Egypt

Whipping up winds and begging for attention

Covering the Nile and Euphrates

With a layer of his own skin and dreams.

Even Judas stole his look.

Everyone runs and takes shelter from him.

And so all he can think is

If everyone fears me, let me live up to their fear

Block out the sun, murder their flocks

And dry up their farms and fields.

Fuck it, if that’s how everyone is going to be

Then I’ll given them the best damn end of life

Plague I can muster up until they are all dead.

I guess being along is better than being hated.

VI

So, back to Christ, squatting in his cave

Still wondering if he should let everyone know

That he’s back. He knows if he does

He’s then going to have to ascend into heaven

With a wave of Coltrane music for dramatic effect

And some cool lights and colors to make it memorable.

His accomplishments will also be forsaken.

He considers inviting over the Phoenix,

the zombies, the mummy, Set –

Their common suffering might make for good therapy.

Hell, we’re all God’s children, right?

Damn it, can’t win, can’t lose, and can’t decide.

So I guess I’ll just hang out here

And think about what the world could have been

If I didn’t have to suffer and die for so many

Stupid little sins.

THE RETURN

Your childhood dog

A cocker spaniel

Disappeared

For six months

To wander alone

The streets of Bucharest

Among the communists

The homeless children

The dark corridors

The shadows

Of decades

Fighting mongrels

Searching for a mate

Eating scraps

Staring at cafes

Filled with smoking men

Brown fibrous skin

Rooted with tendrils

Veins and creases

The world

Through the glossy eyes

Of damp dreams

Hoping for

A bone

To gnaw on

A gentle palm

Pressed

On his soft head

A halo

Decrepit

Forgotten

To return

Panting

At your front door

Prodigal

Desperate

Hungry

How hard

Did you look

How much

Do you hope

I’ll do

The same?

BAR FLY

There is mileage on this old man and his dog As he sits at the bar, tears dripping into his scotch. Smoke swirling inside of his jelly fish lungs and the tired, sad eyes of his pup – crystal and glossy. If you look close enough you’ll see the reflection of a jazz funeral. The bartender is a good listener, but it’s his job There is no heart in it. He’s one large Godzilla grin. It’s the same with whores. They don’t kiss – They rolls rubbers on with their mouths but all they care about is the weed and the money. This man’s life is summed up by the cufflinks on his sleeves the tweed on his back, the pomade in his thin hair and the wrinkled note in his pocket. The one written in pencil too faded to read.

CANOEING

We shove off from the damp sandy shore careen into the open mouth of the river. You’re up front, scouting our direction as I steer us into the sun. Without knowing what lies ahead we smirk at life jackets left on the seat. You can’t swim but I’m sure I can save you. We paddle into a part of the river That narrows around our fiberglass canoe. An American alligator sun bathes on a fallen southern oak. His jowls are open to the heat and light warming his sticky, rubber skin. You are frightened by this first challenge – passing a beast that could devour us. Together, we navigate past it and we hope he’s not waiting on our way back. The water laps gently at our boat Slightly spilling in as we lift our paddles in and out trying to prevent us from spiraling or getting stuck on the shallow banks. We feel the current pushing against us thoughtless gravity forces us to thrust harder. In this tiny arc, we have enough between us to start over but we chose to push ahead through prehistoric Lilly pads, croaks of countless frogs a soft plague foreshadowed down the river but we’re enthralled by the current that we don’t think about about the future. We hook a corner and our craft gets stuck on the shore. After some struggle we dig in with our paddles and shove off back into the deep water when we’re surrounded by reaching tree limbs that engulf us; claw at our skin. We forget how to get out of this; our oars are useless in our hands. Rocking back and forth with the cadence of a lost way until we tip over and plunge into the cold water. A sudden gurgling fills our ears as if it’s all flushed away. We spring from the river laughing and gasping for air. Muck in our clothes and strands of grass in our hair. The canoe filled with water Sinking to the bottom and everything we own is ruined drenched and broken like the abandoned paddles and the discarded life jackets.

OBSIDIAN

Mirrors are slow moving liquids And in ten lifetimes, their puddles Will never be seen. There are mirrors Still intact From the bronze reflections Of a falling Renaissance To the poisonous glass, tin and mercury Of post apocalyptic smiles And ornate, Victorian women Pulling brushes through Their natural hair. My Doctor has told me My lungs sound fine My heart beats In time with the modern clock. My blood is clean And my cholesterol is healthy. Still, there is something wrong With what’s on the outside. Oxidized skin Insect eye freckles Bruises only appear Under black light. What’s on the outside Isn’t reflective. It’s bony, crushing luminosity A tombstone nose Oversized, boneless Body parts - inflated life. If you think that’s bad – Don’t open my pill box mouth Or filet my rib cage To finger through the flesh of my heart. It’s said we’re all unique But on the inside we’re all horror show. We’re all muck and gelatin. We’re all gooey, filled with spaghetti nerves. There are slices of bodies Indexed in museum glass. But there are no mirrors. Water was the first mirror.

DAY TRADES

Kick the sleeping dog in the gut

and smack the inebriated porn starlet

to wake them both from their

annoying slumber.

Wash the nicotine and the carbon monoxide

from your fragile hands and watch the clumps

of soap suds slither down the drain

like tired, over grown amoebas.

There is music playing in the lobby

and banter escalating on the sidewalk

of this tired, peeling hotel

haunted by dead janitors and bell hops.

The elevator takes the living

to the top floor during the day

while discretely taking corpses back down

in the middle of the night.

It’s a perfect system

built by nefarious engineers

and business men

looking to keep their bank accounts

fully stocked at all times.

SKIP

Who the hell am I to tell the yellow dog

On the winter pine colored ottoman

To stop licking the course fabric?

Who the hell am I to deny her

The pleasure of dragging her soft tongue

Over the woven threads of the material?

It must feel good to her

And just because all of my habits are bad for me

Why should I stop her

From enjoying an inert addiction.

I have a new funeral to attend everyday

For the rest of my life.

There are things worse than picking at a scab

Or chewing the dead flesh next to a fingernail

There are things worse than death.

There is repetition with out change.

There is repetition with out change.

There is repetition with out change.

There is repetition with out change.

There is repetition with out change.

DRAIN FLIES

One of their ancestors

Must have flown in

On a dry night

In search of water

And a settlement

For its offspring to grow

After hatching,

They live solitary lives

Swirling around my swats

The aroma of shit

And cigarette smoke

Hovers as their sky

One lands on the dark mirror

And I smack it with my

Soapy, wet palm

The fluid drips

With the flow

Of semen

It’s a horrible way

To die, smashed

Into a still ligature

What does one

Think about, fluttering

From the tub

Leaving the safety

Of the copper pipe

The nourishment of water

Navigating the square walls

Of a tiny bathroom

Never seeing the sun

Unable to find a mate

To make love outside

And fill another drain

Most look at their birthplace

As a spiraling conduit to hell

They see it as home.

TAKE OUT

There is Chinese food In a foam container. The chicken, pig, cow, and shrimp are hellaciously hot Good enough for a demon’s palette but torture for mortals. I douse it all in duck sauce to improve the bland flavor. All the while not even noticing the rain pouring outside the window. I pick out the pieces I want and disregard the rest upsetting the entire animal kingdom and its wasted sacrifices. I wonder if the animals I am eating were loved. I wonder if any of them had been given names.