Stiil, Just the Same


He threw a pinch of sugar into the dregs of coffee then stirred it with a steak knife. The blade loose in the cracked black plastic handle with the faux wood-grain finish had a small depression it from where it fell on the stovetop burner. The drink was already stone cold but he wanted to make it as tolerable as possible. There was something he head to do. He just didn’t want to do it. The dog whimpered at his feet. She was in pain. What did these things always fall to him?

We had to give her back to the farmer. It hurt the father just as much if not more. Some people can get numb to something if they do it long or often enough. But not the father. You could weep about it afterwards but not while you’re doing it; just pray something else came along which usually did. Still, just the same, it never seemed to stop you from doing it.

When he was a boy, the boy’s age, he and Richie would go catch puppies or kittens and take them down to the river in burlap sacks.

What are doing with them? His mother would ask in English heavily accented with Polish.

He knew she meant the flour sacks he had stuck in his belt loops. She used them to cure the pork his father dressed and lately they had been disappearing. What are you doing with them she asked again in Polish.

Yes, mother, dear, we apprehend young newborn canines and felines and place them in these sacks and convey them to the mighty Susquehanna where they are dropped to their great rewards…


Yeah, Ma, me and Richie catch puppies and kittens and put em in these sacks then toss em in the river.

Ahh, pain the dupa, she understood what she wanted to understand. When she was listening anyway.

If she saw how the sacks were shredded and full of blood and shit she wouldn’t want them back. One time, just once, he’d love to come home up the hill and toss the sack at her, Here you go washerwoman, clean the shit and blood out of this. Just to piss her off. He never did and would.

The following morning when the father told the son the lie the boy wasn’t old enough to appreciate the compassion behind it; the hope that telling a lie, or lying often enough, might make the lie a little more acceptable or warp the truth out of shape enough to make it believable, make it the truth. Something else will come along. That’s what his father always told him. Something else will come along. He never said what exactly, good or bad, just something different will come along. The boy thought he was just hedging his bets. The next day, tomorrow, was the only thing that came along. Or would it? He thought, Why does this always happen to me?

Conversational Echoes


I jump in the river

Then complain about being wet.

Then again it’s tough to keep your house in order

When you live in an apartment.

When we were young

And wore synthetic Indian moccasins

Sometimes it only took one person

To believe in us.

I guess its like Johnny Shines said,

Two trains running side by side one took my baby I guess she’s satisfied

Like a grocery list written on the back of a postcard

Of Diego Rivera kissing Frida Kahlo in the hospital.



I named it

Put horns on it

And filed its teeth down till their points twinkled like dead stars.

Then it flew around the room

its tongue lolling between its jaws

Like matins

And I could tell it was exhausted

Close as a kiss

Its breath suddenly sour

From a length of bad habits

And deep draughts cluttered and brittle

With the dregs of empire.

That’s when I filled

An empty shotgun shell

With teardrops and dragged it out

Behind the barn

There to put one of us out of their respective misery.

On the way we tripped over a prostrate poet

Waiting for a trickle of his own tears to freeze

Idly building a tiny drawbridge

Out of toothpicks and sonnets.