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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