The cars passing

outside the bedroom window

sound like

waves

lapping

hungrily at the

shore

and they are

ceaseless for this late an

hour

and for the

first time in

years

I find the

wall at the

other side of the

bed.

And so I

unbuckled my

belt and let the pants

drop to my ankles,

the

buckle

softly finding my

foot with a quiet thud
--

a deliberate gesture of

silence for the

boys downstairs.

I climbed into the

empty bed,

and tried to

remember to

enjoy its

newly discovered

size.

He
hung
himself
from a
basketball
hoop
in
the
park next to
the lake.

The soft
breezes
pushed him
to
and
fro
and his
toes
pointed
all the way
down.

Abandon the place
you're at,
rally the troops and grab
six packs of
tall beers to be
carried by the yokes
on single fingers as we
stroll along the lakefront
in search of a
suitable place to
drink and
chat and
laugh.

A gentleman's dinner of
cold beer and
cold apples.

the butter crackled
like cicada shells under
high-tops on sidewalks.

Even the
quarter machine is a
scumbag
at this hour
and will take
my nasty folded
dollar bills
without question.

And perhaps it was my
father's bad move when
he taught me how to
break cleanly
because I find myself
leaning over too many local
pool tables, lining up shots
and getting better with each
one I take and each
beer I drink on these
dirty Tuesday-Friday nights,
getting closer to a perfect game.

And I wipe the
nasty well whiskey out of my
stubbled beard with the
back of my wrist and
try to keep my hand
chalked and ready to shoot the
next game,
maybe for beers if that
works out but,
if not just line the shot with
my wonky eyes and
try not to
talk too much
shit.

never
drank with his
left hand so as
to keep the
chalk dry.

"But she fucked him,
right?"

What a silly question,

of course she fucked him
and was
fucking him.

Slippery fingers like in
years past or
gone by and

when the bartender laughs at
you you know it's time
to go home to
read alone on the
couch like in years past and just

take every gulp of beer like it's
exactly time to start drinking
the next one.

He dug the
pointed tip of the
blade into his
forearm
and ratcheted the
jackknife towards his
elbow in
violent
sharp
jerks
like he was
opening a can of
tuna.

Oh Billy.

He didn't like it when
I went home with
his bartenders because
he loved them in his
own strange way,
and maybe he had an
eye open as he
slept in the uncomfortable
leather semi-circle chairs in
the corner,
and I know he felt
bad that time he fired
Jenna in a huff
because he found me
waiting downstairs,
hiding behind a pillar
in front of the bank next
door.

When he won the
lotto one day he
said he'd fly us
all to Florida,
but he just went to
Florida and lost all the
money,
and came back
no more defeated than
before and had the
balls to tell Suki to
go fuck himself.

It was funny
to see old Billy,
brown as a leather
suitcase drinking
cold white beers in
the park like a
millionaire.

He'd been something
once,
had owned Miami and
fucked women in the
upstairs after the
doors were locked,

so when a psychic told
him he'd die at 50
he just said no,
and kept on being
Billy the piece of shit
with sad stories
and bad teeth,
bad breath and a
dick that didn't
work anymore.

Billy the old
Croatian,
who lost it all
on the horses.

Billy who'll never
die,
who'll never die.

My father would drink

salt water,

take one breath and

disappear under the

waves for
minutes at a
time
and
surface with

conch shells,

silver fishing lures,
and

other trinkets

thought lost to sea.

He would pull us,

his children,

in a rubber raft he'd

found adrift,

holding the rope with

clenched teeth while

his swimmer's build of
triangular sinew

led us out beyond

the bobbing white and

orange buoy,

Powerful with every

stroke and

he'd lean back to

dip his hair in

the salty mass,

throw back his head

and smile--

bright flat teeth

and pure slick

divinity.

No man so powerful

could launch us

feet into the air,

screaming with

glee and fear before

our bodies slapped the
brisk,

salty fresh brine.

No man like Father,

born of water and

salt and

grace.

1.

I still hate packed
bars and I
still just want to
drink in the quiet back
room of Miami.

2.

and I'm no longer
sitting at the bar
drunk and sad
waiting for a
girl to come up to me

I'm actually just
sitting at the bar
drunk and sad.

3.

and with my elbows in the
bar rail I feel the
same familiar
loneliness I felt when I was
twenty
and started
wondering if something
was wrong with
me.

She said
Malort tastes like
skinny jeans and
"my mom pays my
rent" and
I felt like
a stupid kid
despite
what I don't
really quite
know.

I didn't or
couldn't relate as the
bartender joked about
when her dad
died because
my dad hasn't
died yet and I
don't know what I'll
do when he
does.

and the kid
pulling up to the
bar
drunk
had an
upside down
book of
poetry in his
bag
and he
felt like an
idiot once he
realized it
was
showing.

and we both laughed,
and tried not to
look at each other because
the stupid cell phone game
the couple at the
end of the train played was
so obnoxious,
and so bad
that when she got up to
leave I
simply smiled and said
"thank you"
and she
smiled back and
said
"good night"
and when I rose to
leave two stops
later I
swayed
back and forth
happily
and tipped my
hat to the
young guy sitting
three seats down
who'd been trying to
soothe his angry
girlfriend and he
gave me a knowing look,
and we both
laughed out loud
and before I started down the
staircase
I stopped,
spread my arms
wide to
embrace this
city and
laughed,
hoping he'd see
the gesture and
know.

I
sweat
through
the
brim of
my hat
and
if she
sees me she'll
think I'm a
pig and I
don't really think
this hat will
dry
until the
class is over and I
have to carry it
funny so that
none of the
pretty girls
will see.

end of story and
only the
single track is open
between South and
Howard and
we might just
never
make it out of this
stop.

I know my
cigarettes are at
home but if I
go to grab them I
should stay home,
but like it was a
few years ago I
might just meet
someone
to leave with.

So either go home
get smokes
and feed the
stupid cat
or sit
reading at the bar
waiting to meet a
sad lonely
girl and

Sometimes these
grown-up decisions get so
hard
but then
the rain
picks
up

and the
bar under the
train tracks makes
sense because
I'll just
wait for the storm
to stop and
I will just keep
waiting until the
rain
runs
out.

And either I want to
go to the bar because
it's raining or
because it's lonely
and I
know I can talk to the
bartender
or just
sit for one
drink to gauge the
crowd.

She used to
sit on my
chest and
pick out
wily
beard hairs
and now
I just
sit and have to
pick them
myself.

My father
whispered to his
friend that he
was upset he
didn't make the
effort to stay in
contact
with his old friends
and I finally got to
understand why he's
so sad all the time.

and as I
waited
outside
for my
friend to
come out of the
bar,
his cigarette
burned down
and the
little white
leaves
dropped like
snow.

She was an
'artist'
and
didn't like when
I noticed all
the lazy mistakes
in her
work.

She had
beautiful tits,
a soft face, and
made every man
working the restaurant feel
like he could
fuck her.

I guess that's
where she got her
power but
once she'd
fucked
the
cowboy scumbag
from
Arizona nobody
found her all
that hot any
more and
nobody told her
how good she
was at
art.

On
Division,
between Ashland and
Damen,
Rite Liquors
sits and
serves the
neighborhood as both
a bar
and a
liquor store and
at eleven o'clock
I would purchase
tall beers for the
kitchen crew
and,
once we'd finished
with the
scrubbing and the
mopping
we'd go
back for more
and
watch for cops
passing at the
end of the
alley,
use
pastry bags to
funnel beer
and
when the guy
who worked the
counter came to
ditch the empty
bottles in the
dumpster we'd
try to start
conversations,

never break
bottles
and
if we
really felt like it we'd
hop the blue line
northwest,
drink beers and
smoke between
the
train cars and
then make our way
to some place that
played
loud music,
and the girls
looked sharp
and
tried to
act tough.

They never
knew what was
coming and
we'd
just
laugh and
laugh and
laugh.

Tell me
more;

about the
bed,
and the soft
sheets crumpled
at the bottom of
the mattress.

The pillows stained and
sunken,

the broken frame
and
scratched up
wooden floor:

Is there thirst?
And as for
windowpanes, they
should be
rattled by the
soft brown wind
of an amber
sunrise, or sunset,

the end of day or
beginning is time
for goose pimples
and short breath.

Why now?  or ever?
Let the voice of
flesh
be
crimson through
wakened eyes,

the first graced
fingertip inquisitive
and a deepened inhalation,
sharp--
percussive and
deliberate.

Let brow be downturned
and neck twisted,
back arched and
feet grasping,

Push.

Push and
I can smell your
mouth now
and
let dim eyes meet
in
furious
glance.

There is challenge,
anger and
power.

Let clutched fingers
strain to
find,

let hands grip beyond
like in fists,
clutch with all
life and
fingernails dig into
palms and

let limbs be
broken and body
crushed,
wrapped into
form for
ingestion.

Lonely erotic dances and
whispered bonsoirs from
darkened glass pane
doorways,

angular faces and
rough hands clutched
around an unwilling
forearm,

"I have a bed,
and you can
stay the night"
she whispered softly
and the man
across the street
watched us intently.

I didn't even have the
forty dollars,
but that didn't really
matter all that much
to me.

He works in
acquisitions
and
that makes him a
piece
of
shit.

She saw a man
on the park bench
who looked awfully
still and it's because
he was
dead.

In France,
   pretty
     young
      French
        girls
          are just
           pretty
            young
              girls

          and they all
              speak
           buttermilk
           Francaise.

2
pretty
soft
French
girls with
rural faces
eating bright
green apples
on a
wooden museum
bench.

People have different
families and it's
weird to really
think of
it like
that.

1.

It's been a long time since
I felt so lonely
in a hotel,
Sister can't hold her booze
and my brother
has an early
flight.

The drunks
running around this
bar aren't worth talking
to and nobody's got an
extra cigarette.

2.

It's been a long while since
I couldn't write because
the bar was too dark.

Beautiful girls
in the airport
holding violin cases
with poise.

The jails keep getting
new beds but
the walls haven't
moved an inch.

He lived in a
cubicle
hotel,

gaunt and
with a
lean to the
left.

He only ever
staggered
in his
baggy brown pants.

--

the easy way
is nothing but
misery.

He loved to
untie
knots,

put strings back
in
swim
trunks
and
fix broken
chairs.

He showed me
things he'd
learned,
like using
matchsticks to
fill in stripped
screw holes.

The twist of the
wrist to make
crepe batter spread,

how to hold a
football,

and how to
forgive children.

This city of
mine
kills children in
summertime:
to the South and
West and
sometimes North,
when they're
sitting on porches
or
huddling under trees.

16 year old
scared boys,

geographically
bound to
prove something.

Gun violence in
Chicago
tends to
spike during the
warm months
and
mild
stretches
of
winter.

High school
vacation evenings
were spent in
pursuit of
fictional girls
and reading or
writing
in the bathroom
so as not
to wake my
siblings.

George Snyder
of the
Chase Bros'
Piano Factory
in Grand Rapids
Michigan
died instantly
when his
chest & skull
were crushed
by a
falling
piano.

He worked
forty years
at the porcelain
coffee cup factory
making
porcelain cups
and
saucers.

She said:

"race you to
the bottom
of the
bottle"

and I
grasped
her
hand.

God smiled a
big fat
smile
as he
pulled out,
wiped off
dressed,
and drove
back to
heaven.

1.

So many pretty girls
wearing glasses and
sundresses,

smarter than
me and they're
already
gone.

2.

Goddamn
pretty
smart
girls
with
glasses and
poise.

No frames--
just
continuous
motion until
written.

Perpetually in a state of consideration,
In a perpetual state of consideration,
In a state of perpetual consideration,
In a state of consideration, perpetually.

When the last person
leaves and you (have to)
face the ceiling.

My father never
wore a
wedding ring.

Tedium and
itchy scar tissue.

I looked good
naked for about
3 months
four years ago.

Reading
Hard Times
in the
bathtub,

the empty
wine bottle provides
an opportunity
for distraction;

Trying to balance it
on my belly as
I pull from the
joint with my
free hand.

Hipster girls with
ruddy faces,
thighs squeezed into
dark blue jeans.

1.

In the morning
she told me I'd
chewed through the
shoelace she'd used
as a belt.

2.

We couldn't that night
because I didn't have
condoms,
but she surprised
me with coffee,
croissants,
and a fresh box
in the morning.

In Montreal,
there was an ageless
asian street woman
who sold bottles of
wine out of her bag
at 3am.

My friend saw
her stealing a bike
once, and
I never forgave her.

She would spit in
her hands,
rub the slime
under her eyes,
say
"J'ai faim"
in a fake-cry
voice,
and beg for
money.

She had a raspy
voiced companion
sometimes,
I think his name was
Eddy
and they sold junk
in front of my apartment
one time.

Cutesy little Arts girls
who fall apart when
they get home.

Stringy haired crazy
women who walk
into streetpoles.

This man could
either
let his arms hang
at his sides, or
cross them over his
chest.

The kind of man with
no butt,
top heavy but with
skinny arms,
no jaw but sideburns
and a dirty
hat.

I'm not the
first to
wonder,
but
what the
hell are all of these people
doing in here?

The cafe
around the corner
is now an Italian
restaurant: they
didn't change the
awning and I
doubt they'll last.

Sitting at the same
coffee shop
daily
wondering whether
people think I
don't work.

I do;
I'm just on
lunch.

An old man on the
El
needed to get to
Florida
to find
her.

Deeply troubled,
but most of all
just
angry.

Short haired
eco girls with
mason jar
water bottles,
feeling righteous
about their choice
to mooch WiFi
from the co-op.

Write to

Submit.

Tired fingers and

the stench of burnt

grounds,

One line of text

repeating—

A cruel trick of the

eyes and

consciousness.

Why is it

Saturday and

Why am I

reading?

The hollow

thunk

of to-go

coffee cup

sleeves hitting

hard plastic

desktops,

Stupid half-answers to

stupid half-questions and

I see students half-conscious

clutching TI-83's in a

crescent line curving from the

high school's heavy doors.

Exactly as I planned it,

and my yellowed fingers stink.

I tried to take her thermal knee

socks off, she wanted it from

behind and the bed was already

warm,

warm and it was odd and she'd

claimed me early in the night,

taken me outside for cigarettes and

by the time we made it to the

bar she was already dragging me

out, had grabbed a fist full of

shirt and led me down the

wonky bar staircase to her

3^rd floor apartment.

Not much of a face but

her name was (I had

a very difficult time remembering

in the morning) and she still

had on her knee socks and

didn't want to talk so I

headed out, dick still gross

but the Montreal sun was

shining warm and as I walked

through the Plateau I watched

graffiti pass and was happy

that the streets were made of

brick.

Sitting at a punk bar
hoping they'll play a
song I've heard
more than once.

1.
Oh for a drunk girl's gaze;
eyelids drooped,
wet hair, and
wobbly knees.

2.
La Belle Provence,
spray painted
fingers,
boozy eyes.

The city was different that winter--
they slept together one evening before
he had a gig, and the whole ordeal
revealed how broken they were.

She was too thin and her eyes
too hungry,
so hungry they
worked.

Still
   
     Bit

         Her
   
              Cigarettes.

Still sashayed without hips.

Quiet, calm perpetual
slump of escalators
climbing from the Monroe
Street El platform,
the wind signals the train's
arrival and before you know it
you're avoiding the glances of
passengers and negotiating
whether or not you'll sit
or stand by the doors.

If no women are without
seat,
sit.

Opening bottles is what makes
drunkards

(stolen)

To slit full throat
     To slit full throat
         full throat full slit
             slit full throat slit

The hope,
is that an old man
sitting three rows from me
on al El ride
some time
will think of me,
by sheer appearance,
as another man.

Nerdy girls with sharp faces
and floppy tits wearing t-shirts
at the coffee counter jobs they
work.

Old Mexican men with hair
dyed jet black, boot-polish
black matte,
clean but old black leather
shoes,
well pressed pants and a
clean but worn leather
jacket.

Two old men arguing over math
at the end of the table,
blue collar Chicago accents,
Lincoln Park.

Playing bad guy games
in my head,
limping across
a field of crop stubs,
the smell of burning mixed with the
faint crinklings of windblown
plastic bags.

Grease covered fingers

wrapped around a

white bread sandwich.

And the city is lost to white wind-

Dream faces shuffle over

Crowded worn sidewalks,

Bootprints overlap like

Footprints in sand or

Wet cement signatures of

Children from

Similar suburbs,

Handwriting taught by a particular

Teacher.   

Pretty young girls with stories of
their own lay reading in
brownstone windows,
with a cup of tea or a cat
at hand or arm's length.

Same Broke Dream.
Broke
Dream.

In Paris,

I was greeted with a hug
and the news that
someone else
was staying with us
in her family's
flat--

(I don't want to lose
the anger,
the trouble,
and won't).

Wishing it would snow forever.

Every week a week a week
Sane routine of survival and
lament,
old days of insanity (gone)
sane fulfillment
happiness at baked bread and
balanced bills.

No more remembering not
remembering curly haired
dough faced Art History undergrads.

Sharp-jawed evil loose bartender
girls intent on breaking skin,

No more hurriedly fingerfucking
sharp-jawed evil loose bar girls
pressed into evil dark bar
corners,

Pressing sharp jawed
loose bar women into evil
dark wooden bar corners,

They become the corners,
merge with the wood and,
once again,
you settle your elbows and
let your feet drift
to the bar rail.

Erik Satie and
wind.

Serene,
familiar melancholy.

A gray sky and
ice rain in Chicago--

Icy sidewalks.

Deny the urge to burn
anything written that betrays.

If I forget,

to remember:

It took seven

days,

and she kissed me

first.

An early morning

rainstorm,

I bumped into

her on purpose but

she just thought I

was being clumsy,

or drunk.

We'd crammed into the

backseat of her

coworkers car,

and the trunk was

filled with bottles

of wine.

I remember I

danced with her friends,

but only so she'd see

me dancing.

We'd met at Miami

for this,

and I remembered

the night I saw her;

I'd asked my friend

for her name,

but wouldn't let her

introduce us.

I wish I'd known

that she'd left the

bar to cry in a

taxi,

and find her way home.

She told me she

liked my jacket,

it was my father's

and I tried to say

something interesting,

but didn't.

I thought she

didn't like me,

and she thought

the same of me.

When she kissed me,

after our early morning

rain storm wandering,

and I closed the door

of the taxi,

I thought how nicely

it

had

all

gone.

If I forget

to remember—

I loved her first,

and you can ask

my friend Kelsey,

for proof.

I wanted to tell the

man working the cafe

counter to listen for the

whistle in this song,

the one playing as he

handed me my drink,

because my old dog used

to bark every time he

heard it as we were

preparing for Sunday dinner.

I didn't,

But as I stood

at the corner,

whistling the song,

I thought of my

Baron,

and could feel the scruff of his neck,

the movement of breath

as he expanded his

barrel chest.

And even now,

as at the stoplight,

I felt enough for the day,

and just missed my

good

old

dog.

Happy,
skinny,
and
fucking miserable.

Drunken
Rooftop
Sunrises.

Keybumps,
nosebleeds,
and panic.

Fucked me some

funny

looking

women.

Two boys sitting in a

studio

listening to rap music,

burning nostrils and

blood still fresh in the

bathroom sink.

Drips of perfect

blood on the porcelain,

on the dusty wooden

floor and I swear

I cannot look in the

mirror.

I swell my eyes

at myself,

rationalize

and then

emerge.

One deep muttered breath.

Drysalt jetty rockfeet and

frozen squid thawing in a

tidepool.

Broken pink wampum shells

sharp enough to cut,

fishing poles carried over brown

shoulders and the shadow of

boys carrying an old bucket

with spider web under the lip.

Pink sky,
saltwater,
and
Heat.

A 20 year old

Dirty kid,

With student

Teacher clothes,

Undergrad's books and

Never enough silence.

I waited for

Her.

She never came to

Ask me what I was reading.

Billy came to

Give me whiskey and

Tell me about the horses,

And the old

Cafe des Artistes,

The kitchen behind the wall that

Hadn't been used since he

Lost it all on the

Goddamn

Horses.

She never climbed the

Crooked thin

Staircase to

Ask me,

Honestly,

What I was reading.

It was always

Billy,

And his goddamn

Sad stories about the

Horses,

But he brought me the

Ring-stained

Tray,

And the

Single shot of

Jameson that,

Like butter,

Melted my tongue and

Made me not wonder

So much,

Where she was,

Instead of asking me

What I was

Reading.

If I had had more time,

I would have

had more time.

A dirty

25 year old

Kid.

Still dirty,

Still waiting.

He asked me how to write

So I sat him down,

Told him to look at the paper.  

Think of everything you want

To write.

Think of whatever you think of

Whenever I tell you to think of

Everything you want to write.

Think of women,

First,

And of drinks/drunks,

What seems to deserve to be written.

Think of childhood,

Filth,

Dirt

Blood,

Etc.

All of it.

Think of them.

You are not them,

They are not--

Fill your boxing gloves

With sand.