Excerpt: FreshStep and Vodka Tonics Smell the Same

He had gone out last night for just a drink. Just one. A quick break from his parent’s bed that used to be his bed and the living room that was permeated with the stench of old kitty litter. Their cat had died four months ago. The box sat in the corner waiting to be used again. Patient little bugger, Bobby thought.

His mother fell asleep on the couch and his father watched C-Span on silent.

So, Bobby had gone to his old stomping ground. The bar felt like a museum. Capturing everything from his decrepit youth he had spent years trying to forget. And here he was. Voluntarily forcing himself back in time.

He had ordered a vodka soda. He only drank scotch now. Scotch, he told himself, was a gentleman’s drink, Scotch, he gulped the vodka, proved he was an adult. That he had survived and landed on his feet.

Tonight, he was drinking vodka. The bartender, Ricky, was still manning the bar.

‘How was your week man?’

Bobby hadn’t been to this bar in seven years.

‘Fine, you know, the usual.’ 

The drink was strong.

The bar had filled up quickly, mostly occupied by students and adults in denial over their waning youth. It was a place of mourning and sacrifice and the things people do to forget about life for a while.

The calendar on the wall was four years old and had the 4^th of July circled. Ricky sometimes roofied underage girls as revenge.

Excerpt: Sam and Cheryl

That day the rain poured backwards, Cheryl sipped her cocktail at the end of the bar and smiled when she requested another. Sam cut more lemons and refilled the limes. They were the only two at the bar except for Jerry who didn’t count because he always sat in a booth at the back near the stockroom and sang to himself along with the wonky jukebox.

Beef Stroganoff and Menus of Vegetarian Persuasion

The human remains are shells in our hand and jankle in our pockets made of

light linen cotton.

We see the sea rise and hiss with its eternal persistence.

Roaming from NYC to the southern land to that white stone house

where the doctor performs his patriotic experiments.

Experience.

I don’t want to kill you but I need to use my karate.

Next we see our faithful doctor a practitioner of the most militaristic types

And he heaves and sighs and strokes gallantly in the night to the soldier’s

drum beat.

Here, oh doctor you perspire and sweat in those hand laid sheets

and weep

and sing

and with the final release we see you licking yourself clean.

Toss a tissue into a perfectly placed trash can cleaned by a nameless man

who idly plots for vengeance.

Pigeons are doves just with painted wings.

The cereal is soggy and your ideas remind me of molding fruit.

The Lightbulb of the Street Lamp Flickers and Ultimately Illuminates

Two girls sobbing

Clinging to the other

Separate and walk silently

into the night.

Record Needles are Diamonds but Not the Kind You Put on Your Finger

The fear blew in the wind like genie smoke. A fire lit beneath the floorboards,

the crack you can only see at night.

The salt water burns but does not extinguish.

The gypsy’s tale and jingling stories told to keep the dreamers awake.

Clockwork cage painted auburn to match her hair,

the hand is grasping a lock too pretty to release.

A stray hair floats in the wind past a racing lane.

Cough the staggered waves and rising tides we view in the distance

with the pull leaving our footprints.

Odd shapes in shadoes that break free in their dances

in the Brother sun, we dance in our prisons until we think ourselves

free.

Metal breast and a nine inch line drawn from

chest to chest.

The subfuge and refuge are all misconstrued under that blanket

your grandma used to read stories to you.

Fiction warmth. An hour more to go.

A dinner plate half used.

There’s bars protecting the glass and curtains in the window.

Gerbil cages smell worse than old kitty litter.

Aloe Vera Does Not Cure Sunburns

Those who throw lies shouldn’t live in stained glass houses.

They wear the colors of your half-truths as a disguise.

You’re not a Catholic but daddy’s a priest.

I saw it on the storefront, a reflection of happiness as a whole

and your fraction of deceit.

Our palms in the middle, where they always meet.

The cocaine cough choked way below your throat.

Our love-shadows projected on summer’s ceiling and the sirens seems so far away.

A tired squaking door hinge,

swollen in the southern heat.

The Radiator Only Works in Summer

Wait for the walk through the doorway

A banquet in your honor.

The balloons full of helium exfoliate the air.

And your surprise party never started and the streamers

began to fall.

And while your dreams began to shatter,

we left and pranced down the hall.

An Untied Shoelace and a Sale at the Grocery Store

The bell that chimes is rung by the hand of an illiterate man

perched upon these steps.

Please do NOT sit here.

Reads the sign that hangs above his head.

We’re all looking for a different kind of escape

and her looks could kill with just a blink of an eye

and no one can exhale a sigh.

We’re all afraid of freedom.

Excerpt: Sunday Morning Cartoons and Memories of Last Night

The world is in her hand, the dream is crushed within her hold

Her life slips through her fingers, something feels like sand.

So, just this silly girl, we see her

screaming in the streets.

The rain will pour on down her spine and seep into her mama’s high heeled shoes.

And those phantoms pull her hair where the wind used to blow.

Sure ‘nuff we see her running and this baby’s nothing short of terrified

that her lies are sewn to her skin smelling sweet like candy.

It’s the end for this devious girl who plays the heart like the harmonica

and sings like a

cat in heat.

She’ll promise you tomorrow but will be gone by tonight -

leaving you with nothing except sugary sweet smelling pillow and no one but yourself to fight.