PBS

in heaven

in heaven
i will be reunited
with the best cigars
i ever mourned with.

an oak humidor
in a book filled study.
on record will be every street musician
that stole me away from pedestrian traffic.

i’ll be reunited with every tiny cognac
and scoop of ice cream,
gone like kings
are king’s breakfasts. gone to heaven.

i’ll get every letter you write,
they’ll make me smile.
i’m proud you think of me
once and a while.

a strange shy cat will sleep next to the steam radiator.
i’ll wonder if he’s satan.
when i’m drunk
the cat will wonder the same.

free from distraction
at a desk stolen from the Philadelphia Free Library
I’ll stare blankly at a legal pad
for eternity.


the great

the great
depression.
one by one
we stop and breathe
and it hurts.
ok, ok.
we keep going.
but over dinner we can
tell,
you can’t mistake a pair of eyes
that have seen hell.
again a pause.
what a reminder of mortality
the methodical irregularity of one’s own heart,
and notion that it’s an ongoing list of decisions
that led up to this moment.
like a dream in which you can't get to sleep
many weeks feel like this.

sometime later strangers meet on a windy day in a Target parking lot.
the great depression is distracted
and a vague adventure begins.
something about shivering
aggressive nudity
and blankly staring at a mixture of bodily fluids.
some bloods don’t make us faint.

but that feeling of being touched
when you are just rushing to the bathroom to vomit.
that feeling. it’s that feeling,
i understand now
is why so many of us ignore life.


PBS

my wife putting her psoriasis medicine on in the morning
is like watching a folk dance on PBS.
what a weird song. thank god there are no commercials.





hold on

hanging on.
the world is a dryer
spinning and baking you.
but if you firmly grab a glass
with your dominant hand
you can hang on.
should she yell at you in the morning
or if by accident
you read something that challenges your politics
look down and squeeze.
an ugly reminder of mortality
appears in a tissue,
grab on with two hands. The glass gets heavier
the lighter it gets
and it can hold you down better.
a friend passes away
so you gather your strength and lift
that heaviest thing high
drink
then let it crash back to earth
and as you remember that friends
funny breath, clammy hands
and weird wit,
hold on.
just
hold on.



my favorite


my favorite
bought a double of scotch
but asked for it in a wine glass.
as she prowled,
she swirled the glass.
she killed a conversation by
recounting a threesome in chicago
in 1974.
she shrugged and sipped her Dewars and ordered another.
she did not rape me in the bathroom,
but she did touch my curly hair like a mother
as i did her coke.
my favorites daughter held court
at the south end of the bar.
Crown and Coors Light.
my favorite hates her daughter
because she’s not a whore.
she doesn’t take what her body wants.
her damn young beautiful body.
she just drinks and mourns her mother.
my favorite is a fruedian jewel
shimmering like
neon light
through scotch
on a rainy night.