WHEN I GET HOME FROM WORK

What I like about this one is

she doesn’t pose

when photographing her reflection

with her cell phone

in a department store dressing room

while wearing a black and off-red

New Years Eve cocktail dress.

I still think about you

in your slim fitting

smooth, pressed

Katharine Hepburn slacks

because you always felt

your legs unworthy

of dresses.

You despised laundry

eternally piled, overflowing

from plastic baskets

as we wondered how two people

a man and woman

could have so much filth

between them.

I return each night

to our dark home

having forgotten

to leave the front light on

feel for the copper colored keys

stick them into slits

the teeth lifting the key pins

and I hope to find you

in the kitchen, a roast simmering

sweet potatoes baking

an open bottle of wine

James Taylor playing

and your thin arms ready to wrap

around my ungrateful body.

Instead, the plug of the lock turns

I twist the knob while fumbling

with junk mail, a chunky cell phone

a laptop bag and a cavernous heart

to reveal a dark home

our two dogs barking

and a blue text message from a woman

other than you.

THE MENAGERIE

You were nervous on that day.
I could hear, or at least I imagined I could hear, you
being made up by the hair and make up stylist.

I was down stairs in our New Orleans honeymoon suite
gathering final sins, secrets, paper work, and holding your ring
in my fingers, feeling the smooth, flawless contours

of a life’s worth of montages and coffins; conflicts
and a rotating carousel of hybrid animals that would
have made Jung proud. Condensation he called it.

Look at that horse’s head with that elephant’s body.
Now what in the hell is it going to do with that musculature?
How will it take a shit or find someone to love it?

And that dragon slash lion slash crow.
That’s a real mess. And people believe in God.
I love that punch line. Well you have to have faith, ya know.

And what child is going to want to sit
On that Tyrannosaurus with the chimpanzee arms
and goat’s legs? That’s just down right scary.

But hey, that’s New Orleans for ya and that’s where we decided
to do it. And it was grandeur incarnate
from the white candles in glass cylinders

from the older, yet pretty female justice of the peace
or whatever the fuck she’s called. From the chairs wrapped
in white linen and those brown bows you loved

from the wedding the day before. I negotiated with the mother
of that bride, because I knew those chair tie backs would make you happy;
that Mise-en-scène set the stage as if Fellini himself were in town.

You adored the way I strong armed the coordinator, muscled the musicians,
bartered with the bartender, charmed the florist, and discounted
the rooms for your gentle mother and your gruff, caring father.

I waited at the end of it all – the suited and dressed guests
the setting orange sun, the aroma of Café Du Mond in the air,
the insane, drooling, hydra slithering and lurking under seats.

Who invited him and what side of the family is he on?

All of the animals where there, myself included
and when I saw you make the turn, seeing you for the first time –
your painted face, gorgeous, enigmatic, beautiful.

Your body wrapped tightly in the fabrics of all of your hopes,
tears forming from your lids and then dripping to the white
plastic runway. I was in love.

Your father placed you in my arm. He trusted me to make you laugh,
to protect you, to keep those creatures at bay by tossing
chunks of bloody meat out the front door – continuously.

To keep them eating, gnawing, scraping at bones.
That was my job but I was terrible at it
and eventually they smelled us.

Clawed their way into our lives
Found us sleeping in bed
Silent as candlelight

More than happy to swallow us whole.

TRAFFIC

Gridlock. For miles.

Vehicles tight as bricks and mortar.

It’s summer. I’m sealed

In an air conditioned car.

Refrigerated.

Like meat. Like blood.

Like the cigarettes

Your mother taught you to keep fresh.

My car, our relationship

Moves a few centimeters. Stops. Waits.

All these strangers

Sit uncomfortably

Behind steering wheels

Fingers and palms grip hard.

We all peer through sunglasses

Then love bug splattered windshields.

I’m impatient.

I unbuckle the seatbelt.

Close my eyes.

Recall the floating I felt

When I was eight years old

And Kristin and Jennifer

Paid me a visit in my Long Island basement

To find me playing with Transformers.

That floating feeling

Women and falling asleep behind the wheel

Still give me.

I begin to lift from my seat.

Slowly, a sedative

Pushed through the throat of a syringe.

Through the roof as humidity

Clings to my skin with static accuracy.

Once free

I lay flat in the air, levitate

Through a time line of my life.

The first time I saw my words printed

On the pages of an aftermath.

The first time images rotated

With the human rhythm

Of a zoetrope.

The first time I slid inside a woman

And then left her on the carpet.

The first time my brain sloshed around

A drunken roller coaster.

The first time I muttered

“I love you” in New York City

The first time I amputated

Mother and father from my life.

It’s all out of order.

I float over the traffic

Under the bridges

Over asphalt and fault lines

Over neighborhoods and power lines.

Eventually I reach my street.

Carlos is mowing his lawn.

Kelvin is cleaning his garage.

Steven is walking his rambunctious brown dog.

They each wave at me.

Apparently, I’ve done this before.

I float through the front door

Over the hard wood floor we picked together

Over the living room furniture

Where you flipped through tabloids.

Over the steam cleaned carpet

Where your children used to smash cars together.

Through the bedroom door

To rest quietly on the unmade bed.

Next to the night stand

That holds all of our framed pictures

In black wooden drawers.

MODELS

The hours I’ve worked have fallen in love

With someone else’s time.

I drive on the charcoal and mustard colored turnpike

Thinking about the way tender veins

Sleep under the skin of your hands

And the way your nails are soft fresh petals.

I can’t remember the last time

I walked the autumn streets of childhood.

Spending so much time in windowless rooms

Washes away the memories of fresh air.

When I was a child, I used to build plastic models:

Harrier jets, Apache helicopters, the Intrepid aircraft carrier.

I spent days gently twisting the parts from frames

Gluing them together, adhering decals, painting edges.

The clear cement would stick my fingers together

No longer allowing me to snap them at good ideas.

Or I’d accidently break off an important piece

Only to squeeze out more fresh glue

Onto miniature fragments from life

Press them all too hard

Until they snapped off again.

A tiny plane on the deck, a rudder underneath, a propeller.

Twist, glue, press, dry, snap. Repeat. Over and over.

Until I pushed so hard I cracked a hole in the hull.

I’m an adult now and nothing has changed.

Pushing, snapping, breaking, getting stuck together.

If I could simply dance with your soft skeleton

One more time, perhaps I won’t crush it all into a pile of dust.

Or, maybe I should just meet up with St. Christopher

Order us a pair of Bourbons – neat

Stare up into the snaking hips of a stripper

And talk about all the things we’ve lost.

PORTRAIT

It begins with your eyes.

They are the powder that protects

Butterfly wings.

There are shapes in the known world

Recognizable to most men

Until your eyes come into the picture.

Suddenly the shapes of once baffling elements

Can’t even compare.

Blades of grass have nothing on them.

The diamond shapes of the most elegant fish

Who do not fear hooks or bait

As they glide in and out of currents

They swim freely in fresh water –

But even they are quietly jealous

Of the soft lids that caress your bronze eyes.

Your lips are in love with each other.

How could they not be?

They are fortunately pressed against one another.

Even seraphim stare in amazement

Wondering how two gentle acts of nature

Continue to blow an autumn breeze

Straight through my heart.

The serene edge of a lake

Kissing the particles of sand and tiny stones

That make people have faith

And life evolve into happiness.

Those are your lips.

They have earned the right to kiss each other

And only a pure, blue soul might have the chance

To meet with them.

Then there is the sheen of your black hair.

Renaissance painters have mixed

The blood of countless animals

Of crushed fruits and inventions

Blended into smooth, luscious dyes

Painted and smeared onto fresco walls

And still, they crush the horse hairs

Of their feeble brushes

Knowing they will never articulate

The color of it all.

Men have no idea why

They are crushed under

The fragrant air that floats from your mouth

Straight from your lungs.

The sweetness of honeysuckle

Of childhood playgrounds

And swings sets that cradle children

The way your tender arms

Hold with the comfort of the pieta.

Those men haven’t even been creative enough

To come up with a name

That describes how beautiful you are.

Still, they continue to paint.