Not even the parts that happened are real

the wine tastes unlike the last time
she says I liked it more before
the fruit was like you
she snorts

you mean forward
you mean plump and fun
and obvious and pleasing
you mean you like that I'm easy

maybe
she invites me to smoke
towards the end of the evening
to talk about ghosts we greet one awkwardly

this one is hers
they met this summer
he left and now haunts her
cross-legged

calm apparition
introduces himself
unwinds to offer his hand
like any man has a warm grip

just because this illusion
is solid does not mean
his fangs are not
ephemeral

bruises fade
and bite marks cede to flesh
as the living move to correct
small deaths

later
we find ourselves
naked on a rock hard bed
sweaty and unfulfilled protagonist

she says
before she sleeps
that slipping inside loss
is all she feels

that first hint
of flavor gone

life
is very long

no midnight kiss for you

Feeling lost

foolish
bullish
and blind

last weekend's fight
became this weekend's
freak out

ran from the car
to a cab

no way home
as the New Year chimes

some lovers never have
an easy time

Tonight I dreamed a memory

It was 1981
in my friend Rudy's home
when I first became aware of the werewolf
in the garage
of a pale green house
owned by a long haul trucker
in an unfinished cul-de-sac
in Wilmington, North Carolina
I heard his breath
and saw his dark outline
in the corner
of my eye
the shadow of the creature crept near me
as I hid from my friend
crouched behind his Mom's
boxy Buick
it seemed a choice to recognize
this apparition
it seems like at that moment
I decided
whether to eyeball
my own illusions
which is crazy
because insanity
does not come
with
an on or off switch
but there you have it
I chose
to leave this hairy
angry
disturbance visible only
in the narrow corners of my
eyes
and thirty years later
the snarl of this beast
seems to be mine
while not
and trying to see it
head on
is impossible
it lurks in slanted angles
at the sides
of my eyeballs
and I drink
and type
and fuck
trying to fool him
into staring me in the eye
because when you
see your
demon
he loses dominion
but this guy has been clever
and watched me grow a beard and
lose my mind
and lose my life
to sometimes
silent
and sometimes
violent
anger
he wins by being
slim in presence
looming
in the background
quietly
like an infection
leaving
me fanged
and hairy
and mad
broken bearded boy
lost
to self-deception

No words or analysis

I come to
against gnarled roots,

arms in crucifix position,
my waist below water...



Dawn greets me,
unsurprised,

she cleans
the blood from my face.

The roots against me
like the last lover-

there are no thorns
but I wouldn't call it comfortable.

We stumble home.
We recover.

Crossing the door,
we feel the fire.

A voice says, "This is another chance."
I say, "At what?"

No answer.
It might have been my imagination.

Dawn chuckles
and feeds me.

Night drapes about us
but it is only dark outside.

Drifting, I think,
"Maybe this time

the dreams
will differ."

'Sno angel like you'

The coins and cards fall before
she slips.

Her grip upon my hips having
been denied,

she lands in snow.

Mistakes leave outlines unlike angels,
and tire treads look like tired faces.

I drive free.

I leave
the cards, the coins,
and her

behind, but

she is still there
in the mirror.

Free now,
its another night lingering
between fingers...

the cards and the coins slipped.




One magic act
will resolve it all?

I think not.

Because we love you

I know she has good drugs
and her guys follow her
like insistent satellites

hooked
in stone-eyed orbits

my guess
she figured out
long ago

this is how you lead them

have the highest tolerance
and the best drugs
in return

you get to pick your rock star



watching her and the Drummer
thinking
how cheap my wife is

no
matter
the cost

Clamshelled

I'm staring at a picture of candles
rendered in blurry black-and-white and upside down.

I imagine them to be glowing skeletal fingers
from wax dummy remains.

It's spring.
It's April and I should be happy.

These last few days,
life
has felt like a lung

filling

underwater breath.

before an afternoon of 99 dreams

over pancakes
I admit
my paranoia
infests
my personal
relationships

even the bacon
wasn't good.

the last night at work and at home

listening

chords like
characters
chiming

I say
I charmed my boss into a new job
I argued with the new chef

wine
smoking
moving near to far
laughing and
silence
laughing laughing
a few more silences

wine and
words
wine
and words

and we put to bed the week

The difference between the moon and the morning

2613523

as if fingers
and kisses can mend

she needs me to touch her
and I am tired

waking alone
can be like
slowly dying

we meet
at the end of our night

not quite secretly
but boldly neither

animal in bed
shy mornings

collects her scattered clothes
off to work

I begin
writing

stop and think
maybe this is love

this acceptance of what is wrong with each others lives
and these simple actions we use to make it right

or at least
lighter

the old bones crack in agreement
while the birdsong mocks the lack of vision

but I keep typing

the next time you meet

It's weird meeting people
and they try to position themselves as someone
that matters
that's in the thick of where it is

listening to him tell his stories
spinning the legend right in front of you
"that's the tie that Boy George tried to buy from me"
and
"they always stay here when they come through town"
and there's more

and at first it's okay
it's entertainment
it's shits and giggles
then

it goes on all fucking night
and the next time you meet

it's 2am
and you're trying to convince him to let you open for his band
you're apologizing for pouring the sake all over the floor
and thanking him for the tie
and saying
"yeah, I'll definitely be there next time"

and you leave smiling
you leave
and sing along to a great song

(was it House of Cards?
you don't even know the words)

the next morning
hungover
work
and then

a nap in the afternoon
the arrival of a hitchhiking friend

and she's a stunner
elegant angles and elbows and
just dipped in beauty
and she gets in

the laughs are easy
and the conversation
comfortably hovers

and she seduces you
it wasn't hard

and you surprise her
you satisfy her

and she stays longer
and she comes more often
and she charms tenderness out of you
and this time

its 8.30 pm
and you take one last look

a look like a long
deep breath

and you sing gospel songs
all the way home

your voice husky with faith

unfortunate architecture

here's a bit of an accounting
the last thirty five days equals

nine doctor visits
one marriage
one honeymoon

one cracked back causes
one slipped disc

one is fired
one wants to quit
one new part-time job

a lot of pot
a lot of wine

one blessing
two houses
three beds

one sick dog
sick twice

two cars fixed and broken
one terminal diagnosis

one couple
one love

all in all
one month of our new life.

11/09/11 EB's

the younger guy talks on

originality,
truth,
veracity

as hallmarks of great art.

art, he insists,
must
be worthy,
without any consideration

other than a pure need
to make art.

the older guy
keeps drinking.

Thoughts on 9/11/11

one year ago yesterday,
before a judge,
with some kind of friends,

swearing about love,
signing a contract,

making a secret mad idea legal.

no lovemaking ended the day.

passed out drunk and in a black,
blank
state,

like every night of the honeymoon,
like many nights before and since.

it should have ended in the snow,
after another nightmare evening when,
for the third Sunday in a row,
I left

everything white and quiet except for the screaming.

Mostly just not yours

too perfect she says
you say all the right things
there must be something wrong

as usual
silence answers first
her words dangling between us

are you crazy
is that it

I laugh
perhaps confirming
perhaps not

she shifts nervously
naked mother of two
with a secret lover

giving kisses to a man
she does not know
but wants to discover

almost from somewhere else
I hear myself saying
well I will never marry you or another

that
silence
again

up on an elbow and also nude
smiling from lips to eyes
I continue

they tell you love has a path
from teenage lust and skyburst hearts
to dotted lines and a shared house

and I tried twice
and I failed twice
and I learned

it is not for me

the silence
this time
is not as loud




she exhales and stares upward
pleased
by my short speech

my compression of romantic failures
into a singular non-answer
is a mad man dancing on the head of a pin

truth
as spectacle
never fails with new lovers

Orpheus tried to warn me

I said to her,
"Beware
of what you invoke,
it will come,"

and though
I would never be heedless
enough
to summon Ted and Sylvia...

that second time in St. Marks Bookstore,
the first time

I understood free jazz
is the sound of
lower New York City,

I purchased The Birthday Letters.

I read her passages
while walking backwards down 3rd street.

She leaned close and felt
the words ping
like stones across my ribcage.

Both, knocked silent.
Those words sweetly rung,

and I swear I heard a harp
plucked when I bought cheap sunglasses
on the corner,

and we kissed where
John died in front of Yoko
while Neptune watched,

and for whatever reason
I remained fixed

on these epic tragedies
of lover's gone to Hell,

and John she shared,
and Ted she did not,

but the second time we reconciled,
she bought me Plath's Bell Jar,

and I wondered
was she
trying to sabotage us,

to drive us into a ditch
or poison us in a corner?

Then, when she left the third time,

scorched Earth silence,
awkward threats,
and artistic titans
stumbling as background,

and our thing-
ultimately mundane.

The worst ending either
could summon.

Late night morning star ship

We took two yellow pills
shaped to resemble

Bart Simpson's head.
This funny little ecstasy...

she sang for me.
We danced.

While we twirled
around the room

my head became
clear.

I said:
will you be my girlfriend?

She kissed me: yes.
We laughed.

Our own private Prom
on a New York Sunday night.

Bar dumb

sweaty meat faced girl next to her
brother wearing a black jacket
hair photo ready facial posture

she talks loudly about
shots shots she didn't call
shots she must want a

shot now she talks of
wieners acts embarrassed

and mentions she likes double
ranch dressing
on her eggs

she takes a double shot of bourbon
leaves
strutting

jowls and all

Bird begets flame

she dances on stage
drunk and listless

face like
a diorama

is there life in there
has she fled

her friend I kissed
took to bed

she watched
silent

invited me to a CD release
party

banjo playing and she sings
like a twenties refugee

plucking
strings
at the foot of my bed

laying next to her
still smelling her friend

out through the garage door
I didn't follow

went inside
silent

took a shower

she called
mostly remained silent

only in music does she seem
present but

not when dancing
when singing

she taps a beat
she starts a song

otherwise
she is all bone

her friend comes
and collects from me

while she just
brings lyrics and guitars

talks to me about
old songs

kisses my face tenderly

I want to love her
she just

bends her head
opens her mouth

gets lost
in old songs

gone gone
gone

another bird
in the fire

Kept Kafka in the corner

In High School,
I occasionally practiced
dressing as a poet,

thoughtful sweaters
and lots of hair,

listening to
lots of bands

with dead
or death
in the name. Meaning,

black t-shirts
most days.

Camus.
Dostoevsky.
Hesse.

Reading alone.

I drank
two Dr. Peppers
and ate

two scoops
of ice cream
every day,

sat in one of two corners
at lunch.

Usually laughing
or arguing
with

my three friends,
the girlfriend
and some occasional difficult other.

Had a faded ride-to-school relationship
with my second-in-Charlotte
best friend.

Had a nightly habit
of dancing
in my room

to Jane's Addiction.
And in Junior High School,

I gave up
Dungeons & Dragons
and comics

and wrote love poems
as a means
of anonymous seduction.

I also
got glasses
and learned how to masturbate.

Not much has changed.

All sold out

whenever she says I had the strangest dream
I cringe and listen to my cereal get soggy

she waffles on without consent
waiting for the whoa to come

staring at the breakfast table flower
I pepper with a timely huh and occasional yeah

thinking about anything other than her
wacky night time brain fart

if she notices
it doesn't matter

an actress needs a stage
and craves an audience

I realize watching her make love
to an invisible camera

the bare walls must be easy to fill
like my silence is open to interpretation

no wonder she loves me
the who does not matter