The sign outside is plain, in red letters against white. “Evan’s Place.” No lights in the square window, can’t even see inside. You have to open the door and walk in where everything is all right as long as you’re drinking steadily and when it starts to wear off you have a little more. Maker’s Mark, Absolute and cranberry juice, tequila, whatever. Keep them coming and keep me numb so I don’t have to think about my dead heart. And it’s always dark inside, always dark, with just a few lights. This is Evan’s Place.
I don’t know how those guys that come in here keep riding. It’s a stunner, makes you stop and think when you see them, hear their stories, see their battle scars. I walked in with David, a sexy date who happens to ride as well.
Gideon sits on a stool in the corner, wears a warm flannel, sips his drinks here every night, contemplates whether to go or stay. He walks to the doorway, looks up and over the railroad tracks, steps off the curb, lights a cigarette and disappears.
Mark and Kathy are married but they’re not exactly all over each other. She plays pool with a few guys, kicks their asses while they check out her ass. One even smacks it. But she handles them well, puts them in their places. Nobody messes with Kathy and she smiles at me.
“Hi, I remember you from the last date you had with my old acquaintance, my good friend. Break his heart and your name is mud,” she probably thinks.
But I have not a heart to give, or to break, to take, for it’s dead. And if things were to work out with this one, I’d somehow find a way to screw it up—unintentionally of course.
But this doesn’t matter now, because Kathy is like sunshine in the dark in here. Her lips are lined way beyond the lip line in thick, baby pink and filled in with the same hue, contrasting sharply with her deep tan. Only a fool believes money buys a tan. Everyone knows sunshine is free, but we go on in the darkness.
Kathy shakes her bleached blonde hair, spilling over an aqua tank top that hugs her ample curves. The fine lines around her mouth don’t matter. She lights another cigarette.
I ask David to get me another drink, and he seems surprised. I haven ‘t even gone to the restroom yet. He went twice already. Perhaps I have a strong bladder, but ah, better if I had a backbone or a heart, or better yet, grew some balls.
Kathy gets up to leave. She doesn’t want to hear about the fat redhead’s problems as she sits at the bar, ranting and raving, decked in black clothes that don’t fit, tits hanging over the bar. Kathy’s arms are flailing around her head, covering her hears, cigarette clasped between her fingertips. No more no more.
Mark solemnly talks to David all night about motorcycles and things. He used to hang out in the Pennsylvania go-go bars years ago, met a few cutie country bumpkins up there and they took him for a night of partying, two or three of them. And why wouldn’t they want him with those sweet slate blue eyes, plain good country boy looks, straight, long brown hair and a look like he wants to get to know you better, sweetie pie. Like he wants to be your friend. He remembers his trysts with a smile, eyes shining.
But that’s all over now, he reminds us. That was before Kathy. Now oysters and zinc make him horny, he tells David. Too bad David is not getting any tonight. Timing sucks and only women bleed, as Alice Cooper would say.
Mark and David talk about chrome, motorcycles they’ve had, crashed, painted bought and sold. I understand none of it. Two hot bikes sit outside, gleaming in the darkness, and Softtails in $30,000 worth of metallic fuschia sparkling.
They belong to two people—sitting and staring at us from the corner. Rob took a step back when we initially walked in, assessing us, or me rather—an unfamiliar face, perhaps a pretty one, to him. He and his pal drink and finally come over to say hello.
Rob’s hair is thick, black layers chopped randomly up to the shoulder, red bandana around his neck, sunglasses atop his head. His eyes are blue and so is the light around his silhouette. His pal is limping, decked in a pair of chaps over his jeans, and I’m in pain just looking at him. But I read no pain in his face. Rob is sexy.
The motorcycle boys start talking about accidents. Rob lifts his jeans, my mouth drops open at the sight of his prosthetic legs from the knees down. All I can say is wow.
“Let’s go outside and watch them take off on those hot bikes,” David says.
It’s cold and I left my leather jacket in his van, but it’s okay, the cold is exhilarating.
“You like motorcylces?” Rob asks me.
I inch closer, watching them warm up the bikes. He smiles.
I could tell he would have taken me for a ride, but would never ask, being polite to my date. I was already on the ride of my life, never turning back. The kick from the exhaust flirts with my deepest fears and I suddenly jump back. They ride on, take off in a huff. Ride on bad boys, go with the American flirt, while that shot, it burns, it burns in my chest in Johnny Walker Blue, makes me numb, keeps me alive, heart or no heart, and time just stands still tonight.
Can it stand still like the one slow tender kiss before we parted? A kiss is more intimate than sex. A kiss implies more, takes you just to the edge before you take it over the cliff. Then it’s gone.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Microfiction: Beth's Vanity
Beth’s vanity is elegantly strewn with candles, figurines, jewelry, perfume and hair accessories upon antique mahogany. A star-shaped candle never burns, topped with amethyst and turquoise in the rough, and iridescent Velcro dots and stars for glamour hair, sprayed with silicone shine, amber mascara wand highlights. Other candles burn when day becomes night, doors and shades close and she roves. A pewter open weave curves, cupping vanillaroma. A stained glass pansy-shaped holder—just like we drew it as kids—five half circles and a large dot in the middle—where the tea light sits, and a ceramic daisy lie nearby.
The somber silver lion guards a jewelry dish. The contents: a silver chain for which no pendant fits—the clasp is too weak or small. A mother’s antique ring in white gold filigree, a diamond chip, and a band worn dangerously thin. Beth couldn’t wait, kept asking when she’d get to wear it, have it. And it’s all she’ll ever wear. He delicately twisted that ring around her finger, nervously toying with it when they parted. Then there’s the large barbell tongue ring—never got a chance to buy a shorter one after the inflammation of the tongue and the last relationship subsided. Any tiny gold hoop earrings and studs—very first ones—still had them. Funny how a father takes his girl to tear holes in her ears.
Aromatics in Dream, Coco, CK-Be, Safari, Opium, Chanel No. 5 and jasmine, lavender, gingerlily, and juniper essential oils line the left shelf. The hyacinth bottle is empty, but she can’t toss it yet. Not yet.
Scattered daisies, roses dried, shrunk, crack to powder and dust nestled around leopard print, blue velvet and emerald trinket boxes bearing pendants in amber, gold, marquisette crosses, precious stones, liquid silver, a cameo. Two good watches have run out of time. A pearl-studded shoe takes a stance, near a pair of rhinestone bobby pins. A pill box pops open with the slightest squeeze. A jade necklace—an aunt’s gift—succeeded the pearl bracelet she lost after Sweet 16.
Makeup transforms and change is temporary, transient. Remnants of glitter eye shadow and its slow fall remain. She lost it all for one night in smoky lids of gunmetal grey, silver and blue hues while lip plump primer accentuated her views. Her lips taste varied moods—nectar, berry, sugar plum, desire, slayer, clovebud—mushing together like pillows in velvet, cream, matte and glossy and shimmery finishes. Rose water blush revives a young girl flush. Potions of line erasers, pore reducers, toners, enhancers and removers swipe away black mascara traces, hide flaws, years.
In the center, an angel figurine, a dryad in mauve robes, head down, gazes upon a tablet, feather pen in hand, scrawling.
Beth displays a brass art-deco lamp, throwing faint light, an Aladdin’s lamp for a few doubtful wishes, and an owl for wisdom—next to a blue, heart-shaped glass paperweight, holding her endless lists down, constantly rewritten, crossed out.
Beth’s vanity needs dusting.
The somber silver lion guards a jewelry dish. The contents: a silver chain for which no pendant fits—the clasp is too weak or small. A mother’s antique ring in white gold filigree, a diamond chip, and a band worn dangerously thin. Beth couldn’t wait, kept asking when she’d get to wear it, have it. And it’s all she’ll ever wear. He delicately twisted that ring around her finger, nervously toying with it when they parted. Then there’s the large barbell tongue ring—never got a chance to buy a shorter one after the inflammation of the tongue and the last relationship subsided. Any tiny gold hoop earrings and studs—very first ones—still had them. Funny how a father takes his girl to tear holes in her ears.
Aromatics in Dream, Coco, CK-Be, Safari, Opium, Chanel No. 5 and jasmine, lavender, gingerlily, and juniper essential oils line the left shelf. The hyacinth bottle is empty, but she can’t toss it yet. Not yet.
Scattered daisies, roses dried, shrunk, crack to powder and dust nestled around leopard print, blue velvet and emerald trinket boxes bearing pendants in amber, gold, marquisette crosses, precious stones, liquid silver, a cameo. Two good watches have run out of time. A pearl-studded shoe takes a stance, near a pair of rhinestone bobby pins. A pill box pops open with the slightest squeeze. A jade necklace—an aunt’s gift—succeeded the pearl bracelet she lost after Sweet 16.
Makeup transforms and change is temporary, transient. Remnants of glitter eye shadow and its slow fall remain. She lost it all for one night in smoky lids of gunmetal grey, silver and blue hues while lip plump primer accentuated her views. Her lips taste varied moods—nectar, berry, sugar plum, desire, slayer, clovebud—mushing together like pillows in velvet, cream, matte and glossy and shimmery finishes. Rose water blush revives a young girl flush. Potions of line erasers, pore reducers, toners, enhancers and removers swipe away black mascara traces, hide flaws, years.
In the center, an angel figurine, a dryad in mauve robes, head down, gazes upon a tablet, feather pen in hand, scrawling.
Beth displays a brass art-deco lamp, throwing faint light, an Aladdin’s lamp for a few doubtful wishes, and an owl for wisdom—next to a blue, heart-shaped glass paperweight, holding her endless lists down, constantly rewritten, crossed out.
Beth’s vanity needs dusting.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Vacant Addresses - 38 Jackson Street
Two blocks down, right at Jackson and Hope
Asian lady says, I’m only half a mile
away yet I drive past it each time
I go around.
Kids shoot hoops in the street near
Roosevelt School #10, Passaic Industrial section
Beth Israel Hospital
double-deck two family homes, porches
amidst glass-strewn streets
on which girls walk barefoot
and play double dutch.
House for sale by owner.
No number listed.
No trespassing.
Warning: pitbull inside.
I’m home.
Asian lady says, I’m only half a mile
away yet I drive past it each time
I go around.
Kids shoot hoops in the street near
Roosevelt School #10, Passaic Industrial section
Beth Israel Hospital
double-deck two family homes, porches
amidst glass-strewn streets
on which girls walk barefoot
and play double dutch.
House for sale by owner.
No number listed.
No trespassing.
Warning: pitbull inside.
I’m home.
The Race
Dad sits at the kitchen table
Bifocals pushed down his long, thin nose
And glances occasionally at the 6 p.m. news
As the short blue pencil guided by his hand carefully
Checks off the Tuesday night picks
The lines in his forehead deepen with concentration
Number 5 in the 3rd..
Or maybe Star Gazer or Shadow Dancer
“Gimme two numbers,” he says smiling knowingly
at the odd that I pick a winner.
I give him the first two that enter my mind
As if picking the odds to life,
Hoping not to disappoint him.
He smiles approvingly.
“Good luck,” I say as he
races through the front door.
Bifocals pushed down his long, thin nose
And glances occasionally at the 6 p.m. news
As the short blue pencil guided by his hand carefully
Checks off the Tuesday night picks
The lines in his forehead deepen with concentration
Number 5 in the 3rd..
Or maybe Star Gazer or Shadow Dancer
“Gimme two numbers,” he says smiling knowingly
at the odd that I pick a winner.
I give him the first two that enter my mind
As if picking the odds to life,
Hoping not to disappoint him.
He smiles approvingly.
“Good luck,” I say as he
races through the front door.
Gasp (1990s)
Gasp
Out of the depths of Dickson Hall, we hang,
swaggering near trails of cigarette butts
tossed aside the Humanities building. The stench
of lunch truck fries, grilled meat creeps into my stomach,
an empty pit. My mind digesting meals of stark Realism,
creative writing juices, rebellious Romanticism.
Mike yells, “Whaddaya need, cuz?”
A shivering figure asks for a black coffee,
gripping a crinkled dollar bill.
Winter gusts beat bundled figures outside
shelterless Dickson Hall. Ski caps pulled down low,
We crouch, grimace, stand ground.
Some go down in defeat, retreat,
long lines bracing away, but I stay,
my hands struggling to light a match.
A tall redhead has my fire. We stand, smoke, wait
for a can of Coke and chicken fingers.
Out of the depths of Dickson Hall, we hang,
swaggering near trails of cigarette butts
tossed aside the Humanities building. The stench
of lunch truck fries, grilled meat creeps into my stomach,
an empty pit. My mind digesting meals of stark Realism,
creative writing juices, rebellious Romanticism.
Mike yells, “Whaddaya need, cuz?”
A shivering figure asks for a black coffee,
gripping a crinkled dollar bill.
Winter gusts beat bundled figures outside
shelterless Dickson Hall. Ski caps pulled down low,
We crouch, grimace, stand ground.
Some go down in defeat, retreat,
long lines bracing away, but I stay,
my hands struggling to light a match.
A tall redhead has my fire. We stand, smoke, wait
for a can of Coke and chicken fingers.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Toy Maidens - chapbook
Amie Rose
(for Angelica Rose Petito Evans)
I dreamed about her last night—
Amie Rose propelling streets
in a pink Huffy two-wheeler,
fringe-lined handles slapping her cheeks.
Corner park boys paw across
a maze of rope, in a game.
bodies shifting, maneuvering,
dangling, struggling.
Amie Rose blows through these streets.
Saturday Afternoon With Tracey
We pulled out those old Barbie and Ken dolls
down in your basement, the dream house.
I dressed Barbie, smoothing yellow hair,
red dress, matching heels.
You knew I didn’t want to be Ken, Tracey.
It’s so much more fun being a girl, isn’t it?
Ken and Barbie zoomed off on their dream date.
She admired his creamy white teeth,
knew better, yet no. She set her hopes.
And so much for primping, prepping, plucking,
tightening, clay masks. So much for holding out.
We rubbed their plastic fasces together, disrobing them.
“Hey, let’s try a kiss,” you said.
I never French-kissed anyone
before, Tracey.
We didn’t feel a thing,
except our slimy tongues. We learned.
Now just light yourself another Marlboro Light.
Don’t worry. They don’t make you sterile.
Pick the wish cigarette (you know the one)
turned upside down before lighting up.
Now you’ve lost one Ken, four kids later.
And me—well my little heart dies every day.
Lovers that never loved and the one
love I’m losing.
Bubbles
Waving plastic wants,
Swirling iridescent blue, pink
Streams, bursting soap dew.
Hopscotch
(for Hanna and Melani Lallo Filosa)
Hanna and Melani
painting cement squares,
thick blue lines, crooked edges
numbered through nine.
Slap clapping hands together,
dust clouds puffing,
powdered faces, feet hopping
one leg at a time.
Grim clouds sneak
in, shifting
washing watercolors
blue lines bleeding.
Monkey Bars
Stretching one arm at a time,
pink fingers grip, turn white, pink
with each bar she lunges for before
missing one.
Tender flesh throbs, crimson stains,
coating sugared tiny pebbles black,
shimmery, exposing ridges of Devon’s knees
She slows, gets up, dusts.
Eyes and cheeks crinkle up, but
it hardens, crusts in time.
Red to brown, peels away painlessly,
amid a squirrel’s prying
black eyes.
Gleaming.
Seesaw
(for Angela Lallo Filosa)
We sat upon a hard, wooden plank.
Red paint chipping, exposing white.
Clenching iron handles so cold.
I called you “Angel” and you
were anything but.
We launched, gradually rising,
swiftly descending. Balance.
Angela, your sly, pure smile stopped
a hush of wind to entrance us to stay
lured to your laughter, gentle sighs, keeping
us all so afloat.
Our legs flutter like blossoms, going
into cherry bombs bopping, silly little
No hand tricks I teach Lara now at six.
Will she ever catch your wing, Angela?
So lost, you and I.
But your were still there
When the blossoms fell in autumn
A breeze hoisting petals up before
they touched soil.
She
(for my mom, Seva Nicholaides)
is alive in coffee-stained black and white
snapshots, out of focus,
a one length bob, checkered blouse
near a candle burning.
The wax is caving deeper, the wick slides
Free, unscathed.
She is amber, blue.
Games
On Park Avenue, past WCWs house,
to Fun & Games arcade, strutting our stuff
for loose-liped boys
of limber means than us.
We go window shop, admire trinkets, mannequins.
I gaze but cannot touch, if I venture in, I bought it.
For now, I’ll just look, walk away.
Further ahead, near the overpass
Where concrete rumbles and steel frames unleash
night’s fury, where he takes you
For a kiss, a smoke. The wind kicks up,
through your knotted hair.
Walking through a decade of love, pains and
empty streets of fame, I look ahead, past garbage bins
stuffed past capacity to a rat’s delight,
feeding unnoticed behind Holiday Inn.
Cars zoom by on Route 17.
Red Shoes
Little girl, pretty white dress, tiny red shoes
run on soft, cushion grass,
learn life on concrete blues.
Are you living in the mood?
Running in the nude?
Armed with purple chalk, I leapt across
squares and numbers, pigtails
popping up and down. Voices were booming,
dishes clanging inside.
I mixed the salt and sugar shakers.
In her garden, I dart through snipped grass,
barreling around towering bushes, roses.
I race down rows of pavement.
She waters the tulip seeds.
They spring up magically,
taller than me.
The instant-grow kind.
Home-made dolls
Once
Aunt Angie from California made me a doll
with all the sugar and spice and nice things
that make little girls’ eyes light up
like sunshine.
First, she bought the foundation, the sewed
Shut, stuffed into shape mass
in all its off-white glory,
sinched at knees, elbows, hips, neck.
Then she dressed her in purple petticoats,
light blue dress, pink and yellow flowers,
rose and green ribbons.
She sewed on a dark brown yarn hair,
two shiny button eyes and a red line
of thread for a smile on a face as big as
a delicious chocolate chip cookie.
She added blusher, belonged to a previous generation
of women. I add my own.
I left her propped up by a window
caught in a downpour.
I got sick of her smile, neglected her.
Cheeks were stained in cool pink, smeared
nearly to her neck in cascades
matching her nappy ringlets, untied.
I dried her off, stripped her, washed her down
A bit with a white terry cloth face towel.
Damp.
And start a fresh face.
(for Angelica Rose Petito Evans)
I dreamed about her last night—
Amie Rose propelling streets
in a pink Huffy two-wheeler,
fringe-lined handles slapping her cheeks.
Corner park boys paw across
a maze of rope, in a game.
bodies shifting, maneuvering,
dangling, struggling.
Amie Rose blows through these streets.
Saturday Afternoon With Tracey
We pulled out those old Barbie and Ken dolls
down in your basement, the dream house.
I dressed Barbie, smoothing yellow hair,
red dress, matching heels.
You knew I didn’t want to be Ken, Tracey.
It’s so much more fun being a girl, isn’t it?
Ken and Barbie zoomed off on their dream date.
She admired his creamy white teeth,
knew better, yet no. She set her hopes.
And so much for primping, prepping, plucking,
tightening, clay masks. So much for holding out.
We rubbed their plastic fasces together, disrobing them.
“Hey, let’s try a kiss,” you said.
I never French-kissed anyone
before, Tracey.
We didn’t feel a thing,
except our slimy tongues. We learned.
Now just light yourself another Marlboro Light.
Don’t worry. They don’t make you sterile.
Pick the wish cigarette (you know the one)
turned upside down before lighting up.
Now you’ve lost one Ken, four kids later.
And me—well my little heart dies every day.
Lovers that never loved and the one
love I’m losing.
Bubbles
Waving plastic wants,
Swirling iridescent blue, pink
Streams, bursting soap dew.
Hopscotch
(for Hanna and Melani Lallo Filosa)
Hanna and Melani
painting cement squares,
thick blue lines, crooked edges
numbered through nine.
Slap clapping hands together,
dust clouds puffing,
powdered faces, feet hopping
one leg at a time.
Grim clouds sneak
in, shifting
washing watercolors
blue lines bleeding.
Monkey Bars
Stretching one arm at a time,
pink fingers grip, turn white, pink
with each bar she lunges for before
missing one.
Tender flesh throbs, crimson stains,
coating sugared tiny pebbles black,
shimmery, exposing ridges of Devon’s knees
She slows, gets up, dusts.
Eyes and cheeks crinkle up, but
it hardens, crusts in time.
Red to brown, peels away painlessly,
amid a squirrel’s prying
black eyes.
Gleaming.
Seesaw
(for Angela Lallo Filosa)
We sat upon a hard, wooden plank.
Red paint chipping, exposing white.
Clenching iron handles so cold.
I called you “Angel” and you
were anything but.
We launched, gradually rising,
swiftly descending. Balance.
Angela, your sly, pure smile stopped
a hush of wind to entrance us to stay
lured to your laughter, gentle sighs, keeping
us all so afloat.
Our legs flutter like blossoms, going
into cherry bombs bopping, silly little
No hand tricks I teach Lara now at six.
Will she ever catch your wing, Angela?
So lost, you and I.
But your were still there
When the blossoms fell in autumn
A breeze hoisting petals up before
they touched soil.
She
(for my mom, Seva Nicholaides)
is alive in coffee-stained black and white
snapshots, out of focus,
a one length bob, checkered blouse
near a candle burning.
The wax is caving deeper, the wick slides
Free, unscathed.
She is amber, blue.
Games
On Park Avenue, past WCWs house,
to Fun & Games arcade, strutting our stuff
for loose-liped boys
of limber means than us.
We go window shop, admire trinkets, mannequins.
I gaze but cannot touch, if I venture in, I bought it.
For now, I’ll just look, walk away.
Further ahead, near the overpass
Where concrete rumbles and steel frames unleash
night’s fury, where he takes you
For a kiss, a smoke. The wind kicks up,
through your knotted hair.
Walking through a decade of love, pains and
empty streets of fame, I look ahead, past garbage bins
stuffed past capacity to a rat’s delight,
feeding unnoticed behind Holiday Inn.
Cars zoom by on Route 17.
Red Shoes
Little girl, pretty white dress, tiny red shoes
run on soft, cushion grass,
learn life on concrete blues.
Are you living in the mood?
Running in the nude?
Armed with purple chalk, I leapt across
squares and numbers, pigtails
popping up and down. Voices were booming,
dishes clanging inside.
I mixed the salt and sugar shakers.
In her garden, I dart through snipped grass,
barreling around towering bushes, roses.
I race down rows of pavement.
She waters the tulip seeds.
They spring up magically,
taller than me.
The instant-grow kind.
Home-made dolls
Once
Aunt Angie from California made me a doll
with all the sugar and spice and nice things
that make little girls’ eyes light up
like sunshine.
First, she bought the foundation, the sewed
Shut, stuffed into shape mass
in all its off-white glory,
sinched at knees, elbows, hips, neck.
Then she dressed her in purple petticoats,
light blue dress, pink and yellow flowers,
rose and green ribbons.
She sewed on a dark brown yarn hair,
two shiny button eyes and a red line
of thread for a smile on a face as big as
a delicious chocolate chip cookie.
She added blusher, belonged to a previous generation
of women. I add my own.
I left her propped up by a window
caught in a downpour.
I got sick of her smile, neglected her.
Cheeks were stained in cool pink, smeared
nearly to her neck in cascades
matching her nappy ringlets, untied.
I dried her off, stripped her, washed her down
A bit with a white terry cloth face towel.
Damp.
And start a fresh face.
Poem: One Night in Wood-Ridge Municipal Court
“If you’re pleading guilty, you better have money
or call a friend or relative,” Judge Janeczo barks.
I guess I’m going to fight that speeding ticket then.
I scoff at the prosecutor’s point reduction plea deal.
And wait until I’m almost the last one left.
Guilty pleas and dropped charges first.
A red-faced woman drops simple assault
Charges against her ex.
“Where did it happen?” Judge Janeczko asks.
“Her mother’s house.”
“Are you still boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“No.”
Case dismissed.
A Capri cosmetologist blew a .20 but wants
A furlough for three weeks to finish school.
“Do you realize that most people can’t stand
up with a .20?” the judge asks.
Break given. DWI fines paid.
A buxom brunette pleads no contest
To disorderly contact for freaking out
On police for trying to arrest her friend.
Snickers in the courtroom from the
Burly guy next to me and his biker girlfriend.
“Do you realize this is going to follow you
around for the rest of your life?”
She does. I have to wonder what her future
Employment prospects will hold.
The burly guy is up.
Three cops stand next to him off to the side.
He decides he wants a lawyer for a charge
Statute number I’m not sure of.
But I sense he may have brawled with
These three men in blue
Cause they were pretty incensed, and so
Was the prosecutor, that justice hasn’t
Served him yet.
A teenager in a FYE “Get Used” shirt
Pleads no contest to pot possession.
“You know this pretrial intervention
thing is a one time deal, right? Next time
you get the full monty.”
But you have to pay to get in this program.
FYE just paid me for all my used CDs
So I could have enough money to pay
My utilities.
Everyone pays, some more dearly than
Others in this court.
This court has collected at least $3,000 tonight
So far.
I’m like the last one left. Prosecutor inches
Toward me. “What would you do in my situation?”
I ask, tears beginning to flow.
I go outside with him and spill my guts.
I have no money and don’t wanna get cuffed
For a damned speeding ticket.
He says he’ll talk to the judge.
It’ll work out.
I go before his honor.
“I make $800 a month,” I say, sobbing.
Anything, even $10 would make me happy.
I open my measly wallet, showing him I have
Nothing.
The deal is $50 next week, $89 during the next
Two months. A $35 defensive driving course
Will erase the points.
Guess I won’t be getting tires anytime soon.
or call a friend or relative,” Judge Janeczo barks.
I guess I’m going to fight that speeding ticket then.
I scoff at the prosecutor’s point reduction plea deal.
And wait until I’m almost the last one left.
Guilty pleas and dropped charges first.
A red-faced woman drops simple assault
Charges against her ex.
“Where did it happen?” Judge Janeczko asks.
“Her mother’s house.”
“Are you still boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“No.”
Case dismissed.
A Capri cosmetologist blew a .20 but wants
A furlough for three weeks to finish school.
“Do you realize that most people can’t stand
up with a .20?” the judge asks.
Break given. DWI fines paid.
A buxom brunette pleads no contest
To disorderly contact for freaking out
On police for trying to arrest her friend.
Snickers in the courtroom from the
Burly guy next to me and his biker girlfriend.
“Do you realize this is going to follow you
around for the rest of your life?”
She does. I have to wonder what her future
Employment prospects will hold.
The burly guy is up.
Three cops stand next to him off to the side.
He decides he wants a lawyer for a charge
Statute number I’m not sure of.
But I sense he may have brawled with
These three men in blue
Cause they were pretty incensed, and so
Was the prosecutor, that justice hasn’t
Served him yet.
A teenager in a FYE “Get Used” shirt
Pleads no contest to pot possession.
“You know this pretrial intervention
thing is a one time deal, right? Next time
you get the full monty.”
But you have to pay to get in this program.
FYE just paid me for all my used CDs
So I could have enough money to pay
My utilities.
Everyone pays, some more dearly than
Others in this court.
This court has collected at least $3,000 tonight
So far.
I’m like the last one left. Prosecutor inches
Toward me. “What would you do in my situation?”
I ask, tears beginning to flow.
I go outside with him and spill my guts.
I have no money and don’t wanna get cuffed
For a damned speeding ticket.
He says he’ll talk to the judge.
It’ll work out.
I go before his honor.
“I make $800 a month,” I say, sobbing.
Anything, even $10 would make me happy.
I open my measly wallet, showing him I have
Nothing.
The deal is $50 next week, $89 during the next
Two months. A $35 defensive driving course
Will erase the points.
Guess I won’t be getting tires anytime soon.
Unlove Poems - chapbook
"If you want to be blamed, marry
If you want to be praised, die."
--Ethiopia (Galla)
A Girl Like Me
Unintentionally can’t nail down anniversaries,
tugs around wads of tissues to deal with a few issues.
And when I hang by a hinge,
an elixir softens the twinge.
Some things never feel the same.
Who do you love? turns into who’s gonna love you?
I shoulder lots of blame, guilt,
lost love, bridges burned, built.
Know great lines, scenes from movies
in which heroes fall, bleed, redeem themselves.
A girl like me
Is solitary…a big baby, some say, yet desensitized,
learned love’s short, forgetting is long.
Gets projections, reflections, directions,
reading Anne Sexton, Ray Carver,
shares whiskey, alive and well in serendipity.
I found a love to bleed for my affections
and a lover to feed on his possessions.
And who am I to try and change the world?
A girl like me
Gets her Z’s from 5 p.m. to 4 a.m. and vice versa,
rises to candles dancing wildly in the wind,
calls from out of area on caller ID.
The best way to make dreams come true is to wake up.
I’m unreasonable, persist in
adapting the world to myself, am
not afraid of the light, like some adults
but revel in the dark, see the stars.
A girl like me
runs on empty and
pumps the gas petal.
New York City on a Weary Heart
Lights turn green approaching the racetrack
going to New York City blasting to rhythms
divine, booming billboards and
Park it Here, and Ride, baby ride.
The bulbs of love shine in every color,
bouquets of roses per dozen only $2.99.
Liquor awaits and Famous Ray’s.
Numbers are rolling,
changing every second.
A bum will give me a hug or a rose
for a dollar and holler, “don’t judge a
book by its cover!,” his mechanical mouth
moving up and down.
A slight drizzle a mist, my face
embracing it...
what I’ll never have again.
Lights are changing, numbers rolling
maybe a chance you could still be mine.
Office Party and a Lame Bar
Office party where stiffs get down to
bad dance-by-instruction tunes.
Two drinks later, I jump on Parkway South.
Two years ago, she left you,
after four years…and she was 15 years your junior.
Two packs of cigs, two orange juices at 4 a.m.
talk of politics, corruption, destruction.
But now I’m driving endless loops to my destination
before nixing a return to 153A,
strapped in, I rush to the obscure bar.
A guy with a “Dick” nametag shirt hits on me, splits.
One leg on the amp, head thrashing, you spot me,
ask me to stay, spend time with you for your birthday,
party at your place. You’re 41 tonight, you say.
I plant a simple kiss.
Later, talk of guns, Smith & Wesson, semi-autos and .45’s.
“Hold it, see how it feels; clips out, safety’s off.”
And we’re loaded.
Anthony’s Apartment
Women burst from your walls, bearing breasts,
a black panther holding up a clear glass table,
Merits and Parliaments burn in a marble ashtray.
Django Rinehardt and Black Sabbath blares.
Maker’s Mark and cheap beer.
And there’s never enough booze, pills to
peel away your skins, find origins of
your eyes, hazel, not blue, you say.
“Is that all you got left?”
I leave my last one.
CDs burning, songs downloading,
Cash Converters tomorrow and grand marnier,
Popeye’s Chicken. I’ll come over with that
banana rum, Absolute Citron,
cigarettes and I emerge from a shitty $20 club review,
hear you play acoustic flamenco, classical, watch the Believers.
Another night, you call me at 4 a.m. and I
laugh because they turned you out.
So now you’re fingering positions, sounds, on your guitar.
Your students must learn theory, you say.
And there’s never enough darkness, never enough night.
Blind Date 1
Well, my date showed up early and I had to
retrieve my purse, left in my car from last night
when I hustled some guy for a few drinks.
He said he wanted me to be his girlfriend
for the night. I told him even a hooker
makes $100 an hour, distracted him,
sucked down the rest of his drink,
got lost in the shuffle.
Driving around with a designated driver
in a car with no headlights, high beams only.
No heat, no right blinker. A smashed driver’s side mirror,
windshield wipers go off track sometimes.
Radio station changes when I turn the wheel…
A car I slammed under a tree once, dents all over the hood.
You’d recognize it anywhere.
My ex did when he caught me with another guy.
Two friends drove me home and I puked
those drinks right up and into my toilet
for a while then went to bed.
Your ceiling is uneven.
So I excused myself to my date
found the purse in the back seat.
You don’t live until you feel pain, constantly.
Keeps you alive. Feeling.
Anyway, I’m cold, not on the straight and narrow,
drunk. A blind date. We got lost in Hoboken,
he got lost coming down from PA.
I’m lost in my own town.
I lost the keys to this diary.
March 12, 2001
Blind Date 2
Date with a guy from Linden who
owns four vicious pit bulls and a parrot that
says “fuck you, Kelly” (his ex)
On the way there, some guy almost
runs me off the road,
Change of Season
Evergreen backdrop, hangs, frames
what I had, as you slept I knew we’d
never see each other again. But I altered the
alarm clock so you’d stay longer,
awaken from your nap in the middle of the
night.
But now, across the lake, a dock with no takers,
no navigators, no more chances.
A gentle splash stirs, spreads toward me,
yet somehow never reaches across.
Costs
To burn a bridge all the way
down, worth your clout.
A disgrace, claw back up
about face, retrace, embrace your
mistakes, reflect defected
off a bottle. Expectations.
The red wax drips to purple, blue.
Mixing and soon it’s muddy, ugly,
missing distinction.
Night Ride
No headlights, dark parking lots, big trucks,
boys, toys, a lift in the air over his shoulders,
guesses me five pounds heavier but it’s okay,
Carry me there tonight, carry me there tonight,
where mother’s hand-knit body blankets warm
bare skin on cold nights. He unzips my black boots,
slides them off. Tonight, night shines on black streets
gleaming white, rain trails under my step.
One kiss trails off that last thought,
veers off track, but tracks form paths.
Skin shines under my fingertips
graze his chest, stomach, arm…trace
maps through his senses, we rush in
chase down the night, chase down the night.
Timmy Ryan
lives above Café Capri on the Avenue
room powered by candles, electric bill’s overdue.
Holes in his jeans, no condoms or beer left
the bed squeaks, the covers, sheets won’t stay put.
The baby doll tattoo on his neck in Chinese,
Blackjack and beers at Pub 46 with Verge
and tattooed girls in sandals and tube tops
Shake it up.
Timmy knows addiction. It gets into your bones,
at $10 a bag for diesel. He had a 12 bag/day habit,
needed 80 mg of methadone to make him “feel right.”
They don’t give a high dosage at first,
so you need dope for another week.
before they jack you up.
He’s been robbed, kicked,
beaten up down a Newark alley, jumped by four guys
as soon as he turned the corner
“Gimme your fuckin’ money, white boy.”
They punched him in the stomach. He buckled over.
The other guy kicked him in the face.
Timmy went to Sixth Avenue in Paterson,
three burned down houses in a row,
but somehow still standing.
You’d walk in between, follow a path
to the back window where they take your order.
You’re eighth in line sometimes,
do a transaction.
Timmy goes where backyard junkies hang out.
Three saw that he was dope-sick.
with $20 so there’s no way you’re giving it up.
He crumpled the $20 in his mouth.
They kicked him, broke a Snapple bottle
picked up a brick, threatened him, he gave it up.
They beat him with a stick, regardless.
Now he goes to Fifth Avenue projects.
His brother, Danny knocked on
A dealer’s door in Alabama.
If you want to be praised, die."
--Ethiopia (Galla)
A Girl Like Me
Unintentionally can’t nail down anniversaries,
tugs around wads of tissues to deal with a few issues.
And when I hang by a hinge,
an elixir softens the twinge.
Some things never feel the same.
Who do you love? turns into who’s gonna love you?
I shoulder lots of blame, guilt,
lost love, bridges burned, built.
Know great lines, scenes from movies
in which heroes fall, bleed, redeem themselves.
A girl like me
Is solitary…a big baby, some say, yet desensitized,
learned love’s short, forgetting is long.
Gets projections, reflections, directions,
reading Anne Sexton, Ray Carver,
shares whiskey, alive and well in serendipity.
I found a love to bleed for my affections
and a lover to feed on his possessions.
And who am I to try and change the world?
A girl like me
Gets her Z’s from 5 p.m. to 4 a.m. and vice versa,
rises to candles dancing wildly in the wind,
calls from out of area on caller ID.
The best way to make dreams come true is to wake up.
I’m unreasonable, persist in
adapting the world to myself, am
not afraid of the light, like some adults
but revel in the dark, see the stars.
A girl like me
runs on empty and
pumps the gas petal.
New York City on a Weary Heart
Lights turn green approaching the racetrack
going to New York City blasting to rhythms
divine, booming billboards and
Park it Here, and Ride, baby ride.
The bulbs of love shine in every color,
bouquets of roses per dozen only $2.99.
Liquor awaits and Famous Ray’s.
Numbers are rolling,
changing every second.
A bum will give me a hug or a rose
for a dollar and holler, “don’t judge a
book by its cover!,” his mechanical mouth
moving up and down.
A slight drizzle a mist, my face
embracing it...
what I’ll never have again.
Lights are changing, numbers rolling
maybe a chance you could still be mine.
Office Party and a Lame Bar
Office party where stiffs get down to
bad dance-by-instruction tunes.
Two drinks later, I jump on Parkway South.
Two years ago, she left you,
after four years…and she was 15 years your junior.
Two packs of cigs, two orange juices at 4 a.m.
talk of politics, corruption, destruction.
But now I’m driving endless loops to my destination
before nixing a return to 153A,
strapped in, I rush to the obscure bar.
A guy with a “Dick” nametag shirt hits on me, splits.
One leg on the amp, head thrashing, you spot me,
ask me to stay, spend time with you for your birthday,
party at your place. You’re 41 tonight, you say.
I plant a simple kiss.
Later, talk of guns, Smith & Wesson, semi-autos and .45’s.
“Hold it, see how it feels; clips out, safety’s off.”
And we’re loaded.
Anthony’s Apartment
Women burst from your walls, bearing breasts,
a black panther holding up a clear glass table,
Merits and Parliaments burn in a marble ashtray.
Django Rinehardt and Black Sabbath blares.
Maker’s Mark and cheap beer.
And there’s never enough booze, pills to
peel away your skins, find origins of
your eyes, hazel, not blue, you say.
“Is that all you got left?”
I leave my last one.
CDs burning, songs downloading,
Cash Converters tomorrow and grand marnier,
Popeye’s Chicken. I’ll come over with that
banana rum, Absolute Citron,
cigarettes and I emerge from a shitty $20 club review,
hear you play acoustic flamenco, classical, watch the Believers.
Another night, you call me at 4 a.m. and I
laugh because they turned you out.
So now you’re fingering positions, sounds, on your guitar.
Your students must learn theory, you say.
And there’s never enough darkness, never enough night.
Blind Date 1
Well, my date showed up early and I had to
retrieve my purse, left in my car from last night
when I hustled some guy for a few drinks.
He said he wanted me to be his girlfriend
for the night. I told him even a hooker
makes $100 an hour, distracted him,
sucked down the rest of his drink,
got lost in the shuffle.
Driving around with a designated driver
in a car with no headlights, high beams only.
No heat, no right blinker. A smashed driver’s side mirror,
windshield wipers go off track sometimes.
Radio station changes when I turn the wheel…
A car I slammed under a tree once, dents all over the hood.
You’d recognize it anywhere.
My ex did when he caught me with another guy.
Two friends drove me home and I puked
those drinks right up and into my toilet
for a while then went to bed.
Your ceiling is uneven.
So I excused myself to my date
found the purse in the back seat.
You don’t live until you feel pain, constantly.
Keeps you alive. Feeling.
Anyway, I’m cold, not on the straight and narrow,
drunk. A blind date. We got lost in Hoboken,
he got lost coming down from PA.
I’m lost in my own town.
I lost the keys to this diary.
March 12, 2001
Blind Date 2
Date with a guy from Linden who
owns four vicious pit bulls and a parrot that
says “fuck you, Kelly” (his ex)
On the way there, some guy almost
runs me off the road,
I let him pass,
he spins out of control, clips the divider,
lands the wrong way.
I get to the Cup at 2 a.m. after I got lost,
he spins out of control, clips the divider,
lands the wrong way.
I get to the Cup at 2 a.m. after I got lost,
stopped at a motel for directions,
made a U-turn down a dead end road,
by an empty festival, I’m on
the wrong side of town.
But I stay for basement pool games,
the wrong side of town.
But I stay for basement pool games,
cry on the way back home.
A love poem adorns his dresser.
"Love is…"
Well, his girlfriend strayed, gave birth
to his best friend’s child and well,
my deal is I’m dealing.
For a Lover
With an empty heart and fridge…cold.
He likes vanilla candles’ soft glow,
cupped out so Spillage is contained.
He cleans windows spotless with ammonia,
sucks up dust dots with a handvac, and
his guest towel is off-limits.
A lover who got me a deal on a firm mattress.
His is topped with pad, dry-clean comforter.
He has a favorite pen, knife, light, everything.
He never watches the sun rise, or longingly
looks in your eyes, kisses your lips, compliments,
makes love or touches your face with a gentle hand.
But he screws like a tidal wave.
A lover who shows no emotion, hates complications,
his stomach in knots, yet wants me in his life.
Sometimes his eyes glaze when he senses goodbye.
A lover who switched me from Absolute to Grey Goose,
and sips Corona nips in summer.
He owns a Kelly-standard branded guitar.
A lover who seals away painkillers in airtight plastic,
dreams of my black cat hugging his legs.
Or perhaps circling.
A love poem adorns his dresser.
"Love is…"
Well, his girlfriend strayed, gave birth
to his best friend’s child and well,
my deal is I’m dealing.
For a Lover
With an empty heart and fridge…cold.
He likes vanilla candles’ soft glow,
cupped out so Spillage is contained.
He cleans windows spotless with ammonia,
sucks up dust dots with a handvac, and
his guest towel is off-limits.
A lover who got me a deal on a firm mattress.
His is topped with pad, dry-clean comforter.
He has a favorite pen, knife, light, everything.
He never watches the sun rise, or longingly
looks in your eyes, kisses your lips, compliments,
makes love or touches your face with a gentle hand.
But he screws like a tidal wave.
A lover who shows no emotion, hates complications,
his stomach in knots, yet wants me in his life.
Sometimes his eyes glaze when he senses goodbye.
A lover who switched me from Absolute to Grey Goose,
and sips Corona nips in summer.
He owns a Kelly-standard branded guitar.
A lover who seals away painkillers in airtight plastic,
dreams of my black cat hugging his legs.
Or perhaps circling.
Change of Season
Evergreen backdrop, hangs, frames
what I had, as you slept I knew we’d
never see each other again. But I altered the
alarm clock so you’d stay longer,
awaken from your nap in the middle of the
night.
But now, across the lake, a dock with no takers,
no navigators, no more chances.
A gentle splash stirs, spreads toward me,
yet somehow never reaches across.
Costs
To burn a bridge all the way
down, worth your clout.
A disgrace, claw back up
about face, retrace, embrace your
mistakes, reflect defected
off a bottle. Expectations.
The red wax drips to purple, blue.
Mixing and soon it’s muddy, ugly,
missing distinction.
Night Ride
No headlights, dark parking lots, big trucks,
boys, toys, a lift in the air over his shoulders,
guesses me five pounds heavier but it’s okay,
Carry me there tonight, carry me there tonight,
where mother’s hand-knit body blankets warm
bare skin on cold nights. He unzips my black boots,
slides them off. Tonight, night shines on black streets
gleaming white, rain trails under my step.
One kiss trails off that last thought,
veers off track, but tracks form paths.
Skin shines under my fingertips
graze his chest, stomach, arm…trace
maps through his senses, we rush in
chase down the night, chase down the night.
Timmy Ryan
lives above Café Capri on the Avenue
room powered by candles, electric bill’s overdue.
Holes in his jeans, no condoms or beer left
the bed squeaks, the covers, sheets won’t stay put.
The baby doll tattoo on his neck in Chinese,
Blackjack and beers at Pub 46 with Verge
and tattooed girls in sandals and tube tops
Shake it up.
Timmy knows addiction. It gets into your bones,
at $10 a bag for diesel. He had a 12 bag/day habit,
needed 80 mg of methadone to make him “feel right.”
They don’t give a high dosage at first,
so you need dope for another week.
before they jack you up.
He’s been robbed, kicked,
beaten up down a Newark alley, jumped by four guys
as soon as he turned the corner
“Gimme your fuckin’ money, white boy.”
They punched him in the stomach. He buckled over.
The other guy kicked him in the face.
Timmy went to Sixth Avenue in Paterson,
three burned down houses in a row,
but somehow still standing.
You’d walk in between, follow a path
to the back window where they take your order.
You’re eighth in line sometimes,
do a transaction.
Timmy goes where backyard junkies hang out.
Three saw that he was dope-sick.
with $20 so there’s no way you’re giving it up.
He crumpled the $20 in his mouth.
They kicked him, broke a Snapple bottle
picked up a brick, threatened him, he gave it up.
They beat him with a stick, regardless.
Now he goes to Fifth Avenue projects.
His brother, Danny knocked on
A dealer’s door in Alabama.
A cop answered, pulled him in, sat him
on couch, and tore the place to shreds,
found dope, let the junkies go
…but they sweated it out for a half hour.
Once, they traded a mountain bike for four bags
But other dealers came up to them,
said it was fake shit. Screaming to old guy
‘you’re on our street’
Kids beat the shit out of him,
and they didn’t get anything.
The old guy was probably a crack addict,
Selling baby powder to dope fiends.
Dope. It won’t ruin your health but it’ll ruin you life, he says.
And Lisa’s all that’s left.
A whiffle ball bat and the game of Life.
Scooby Doo boxers that he makes a
nametag bracelet from for his girl.
And he misses those red M&M s from his aunt.
She’d pick him up from school
And his grin was wide, blue eyes
Sparkled until they turned to clouds,
Pins.
on couch, and tore the place to shreds,
found dope, let the junkies go
…but they sweated it out for a half hour.
Once, they traded a mountain bike for four bags
But other dealers came up to them,
said it was fake shit. Screaming to old guy
‘you’re on our street’
Kids beat the shit out of him,
and they didn’t get anything.
The old guy was probably a crack addict,
Selling baby powder to dope fiends.
Dope. It won’t ruin your health but it’ll ruin you life, he says.
And Lisa’s all that’s left.
A whiffle ball bat and the game of Life.
Scooby Doo boxers that he makes a
nametag bracelet from for his girl.
And he misses those red M&M s from his aunt.
She’d pick him up from school
And his grin was wide, blue eyes
Sparkled until they turned to clouds,
Pins.
For a Lover
With an empty heart and fridge…cold.
He likes vanilla candles’ soft glow,
cupped out so Spillage is contained.
He cleans windows spotless with ammonia,
sucks up dust dots with a handvac, and
his guest towel is off-limits.
A lover who got me a deal on a firm mattress.
His is topped with pad, dry-clean comforter.
He has a favorite pen, knife, light, everything.
He never watches the sun rise, or longingly
looks in your eyes, kisses your lips, compliments,
makes love or touches your face with a gentle hand.
But he screws like a tidal wave.
A lover who shows no emotion, hates complications,
his stomach in knots, yet wants me in his life.
Sometimes his eyes glaze when he senses goodbye.
A lover who switched me from Absolute to Grey Goose,
and sips Corona nips in summer.
He owns a Kelly-standard branded guitar.
A lover who seals away painkillers in airtight plastic,
dreams of my black cat hugging his legs.
Or perhaps circling.
With an empty heart and fridge…cold.
He likes vanilla candles’ soft glow,
cupped out so Spillage is contained.
He cleans windows spotless with ammonia,
sucks up dust dots with a handvac, and
his guest towel is off-limits.
A lover who got me a deal on a firm mattress.
His is topped with pad, dry-clean comforter.
He has a favorite pen, knife, light, everything.
He never watches the sun rise, or longingly
looks in your eyes, kisses your lips, compliments,
makes love or touches your face with a gentle hand.
But he screws like a tidal wave.
A lover who shows no emotion, hates complications,
his stomach in knots, yet wants me in his life.
Sometimes his eyes glaze when he senses goodbye.
A lover who switched me from Absolute to Grey Goose,
and sips Corona nips in summer.
He owns a Kelly-standard branded guitar.
A lover who seals away painkillers in airtight plastic,
dreams of my black cat hugging his legs.
Or perhaps circling.
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