Imminent Jam

20170411_184648~2

 

English isn’t my first language:

It is the glossolalia of improving my mile.

Further.

Isn’t that what the man said?

 

Well, then, that always seems like always a

Hair further

Don’t it?

Man and woman alike can get tonguetwisted

 

Colloquially and in the finest farthest reaches

Of underpasses, townhomes and high-rises.

Eventually we trip over our tongues when the red light goes on.

By then, it’s time to get off anyways…

 

So knuckle under and buckle up, buttercup.

I’ll hold the steak knife to your supple chin

And by pray by dints, the glint on the blade

Blinds us all.

Earthbound

img_20170219_190440_6692.jpg.jpg

A slack of stones

Metastasizes like boulders

Beneath your shoulder

 

Blades where angel’s

Wings sprout one silly

Cilia at a time.

 

Time. Can I borrow some?

I need a ride, too,

Don’t worry, just out to the

 

Quarry. How much junk

You got in your trunk?

It’s just that, lately,

 

I’ve been fearing

I’ll be gone till

Only the mountain remains.

 

Gravity’s a bitch

For aspiring seraphim

And cherubim alike

 

Though what passes for

Difference these days

Can’t be pried apart

 

By a feather

No matter how small

Or how silly.

 

So

You got that ride

Or what?

 

 

Winter Commute

 

wp-1487599765320.jpg

 

The engine turns over

But the belts whine

When its cold and wet.

Winter’s not over yet

 

Especially in the morning

But its only dew

On the windshield

Rather than frost.

 

The engine turns over

But the heat blows cold

And sometimes you don’t have patience

For this car, this job, this life.

 

The engine turns over.

But one day it won’t.

Tap tap tap. Click click click.

Or nothing at all.

 

Type B

20161229_124735.jpg

Born nameless without sin

We exit otherwise;

Meh, what can you do?

 

Live up to our names and sins

Or risk pissing off the Gods?

Better then being pissed on, eh?

 

Keep it moving Guthrie,

Your songs don’t play

On this jukebox.

 

From sea to shining sea

The gods burn upon re-entry

With nary a fizzle or kerplunk.

 

We carve ice sculptures in hell,

Fashion thimbles from granite boulders

With our bare hands.

 

Other times we nap.

Dreaming of names and sins,

Lonely as all get out.

Hold Me Like You’ll Never Let Me Go

 

img_0336.jpg

 

There was no one else in the bar except for Max, my dad and me. John Denver was breaking my heart singing about leaving on a jet plane. The way his voice rose when he sang about leaving and not knowing when he’d be back again. That last kiss. First it was the kiss but as I got older it was the smile.

I was 6 years old and sitting at the bar in Max’s Village Inn and couldn’t wait for the day my feet finally touched the floor. Growing up is all about the up. It was 9 am on a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc., you get the idea. I was finishing my breakfast of Swanson grilled cheese and a side of Planter’s peanuts with a glass of Coca-Cola. I had put the sandwich in the toaster oven, pulled the coke, and grabbed the peanuts all by myself. Told Max, put it on my tab, OK, Mutt, he said. Big spender.

A growing boy like me needed his energy to play pool and electronic shuffle board against his old man and now there was this thing called Pong. Christ, we were like the fucking marines getting more shit done before 9 am or whatever the hell time it was the marines got shit done. My dad was in the army back in Korea. That’s where he fucked up his leg though he never really said how. He told me about shooting empty beer cans on a frozen lake with his buddy from California, about how much he liked eating soba noodles from the street vendors in Tokyo (so much he made up a song “Soba Soba so vely vely good to me”) and about a party for all these newly released ex-Red Chinese POW’s including his older brother and how the poor bastards hadn’t any pussy or booze in years and went so fucking nuts at the sight of the geishas they started fighting and throwing shit around that the MP’s closed it down in fifteen minutes.

He always said the jarheads were all fucking gung-ho nutjobs, the Air Force guys sat around all day and the navy guys were just plain pussies. Since we shuttled between Max’s and the VFW most every adult I knew was a veteran.

I asked Max, Did you serve?

Coast Guard, he said.

Jewish Navy, my dad added with a laugh knocking back a shot of Crown Royal, Not one Jap sub got within 3,000 miles of Philadelphia with Max on watch. Then he went off to take a piss.

Not anything against your dad but Jewish Navy, meh, look at me, I got all my limbs, brains and don’t walk with a limp. If you got a go, go there.

Fuck that I thought to myself, I’m going to play second base for the Phillies.

I looked at my dad’s drinks, his cigarettes, some nickels and dimes, the lighter from Atlantic City with an embossed dollar sign on it that never worked well but he kept using because I got it for him. The only times he had been on an airplane was when they shipped him home and he got waylaid at a psych ward in Hawaii and then flown back to PA. He was on a stretcher or in a wheelchair most of the time so he couldn’t even go outside in Hawaii. It wasn’t even a state then he used to say.

I watched him walk out of the can and back to his seat. A slow steady limp. Rising and falling. Like a piston on an old, tired engine always thirsty but always a few quarts low. Seasons in the Sun started playing on the jukebox. I had selected it.  

Jesus Christ I said out loud and grabbed my dad’s Pall Malls and started to tap one out, who plays this depressing shit?

Easy, my dad said, Watch your mouth, and took the butt from my lips. I spit a little bit of tobacco from the tip of my tongue. Puh.

There was no one else in the bar except for Max, my dad and me.