I.
I took a shower
and washed my sheets
today. I sat on the stoop
read and smoked until
my legs got tired. Soon
I will kiss you in the doorway,
move the hair from your face.
These days are beautiful days.
II.
Whenever I come back from the bathroom
at four in the morning and you are still there
talking in your sleep, I believe in luck
for the first time in my life.
Short Short Stories (Momentary Fiction)
I.
His hand on the doorknob,
he paused, and dropped his bags
to the floor.
II.
Gwendolyn edged to the on ramp.
Home already felt like a memory–
a dream. She smiled as the turn
signal flickered.
III.
She still sleeps on her side of the bed
in case he ever decides to come home.
IV.
The crib in the garage
collecting dust for two years:
on Sunday they put a white sheet over
it, like a ghost on Halloween.
V.
Grabbing the scotch near the bed,
he decided that the chalky-pill taste
would be a terrible last thing to eat.
VI.
She traced his silhouette
with her fingers and said
muffled, into his hair
I’ve always loved you.
The sound was swallowed up
by the follicles.
I’ve never written
a single thing
of worth–
and this
is no
different.
we were here
your glasses left next to the bed
are a photograph. it says,
“we were here and
we were here and
we were smiling and
we were here.” every
thing is a photograph since you.
my mornings, our evenings,
you turning over showing me your
naked back while the day pushes
slowly in.
An excerpt from the book I am working on
I’m writing an English-to-English translation of Paterson, by William Carlos Williams to graduate college. It’s long, desperate, agonizing work, but here’s an excerpt from chapter 2 so you can all see what I’ve been up to:
I asked him, what is there to do around here?
He paused to think, examining me and the type of man I might be
and what it is I might be so inclined to do in such a place. Clearly the first
question of a traveler.
What do I do? I watch out-of-state license plates drive by. I make up stories:
the man from Indiana here in Philadelphia to bury his estranged wife. They have
Signs everywhere: come visit historic Philadelphia.
He pulls off the interstate onto Vine street. There’s
a man in a ripped green army jacket shaking a cup
at driver’s side windows. It is January and that
bell is still cracking somewhere.
Driving –
He watches two men get drunk on three dollar beer
in an Irish bar He never wished to visit. They are giving
Him a floor to sleep on and a hot shower, and He has
learned not to hurt those who help. Everyone
is staring silently into pint glasses full of varying amounts
of black liquid. Above all, a ring of stale smoke hung;
the primary colored neon lights became augmented by
the air on their way to the wooden floor. There are
people everywhere, their faces like mouse traps
opening and shutting without any reason at all. He missed
the quiet moments in the apartment: the neighbor
below flapping dirty sheets out of a fifth story window,
the ancient sounds she makes when she first wakes in the soft
mornings. But the road is a song to anyone who has heard it before.
He decides that love is a terrible thing. The interstate
is simple, easy. No turns without fluorescent warning
signs, the emergency lane is the arms of his mother
open always.
But under those lights they sit waiting,
months drink by–
3:00am
they still wait.
He paused to think, examining me and the type of man I might be
and what it is I might be so inclined to do in such a place. Clearly the first
question of a traveler.
What do I do? I watch out-of-state license plates drive by. I make up stories:
the man from Indiana here in Philadelphia to bury his estranged wife. They have
been separated for eighteen years and he still carries her picture in his wallet. This is my entire occupation.
Signs everywhere: come visit historic Philadelphia.
He pulls off the interstate onto Vine street. There’s
a man in a ripped green army jacket shaking a cup
at driver’s side windows. It is January and that
bell is still cracking somewhere.
Driving –
He watches two men get drunk on three dollar beer
in an Irish bar He never wished to visit. They are giving
Him a floor to sleep on and a hot shower, and He has
learned not to hurt those who help. Everyone
is staring silently into pint glasses full of varying amounts
of black liquid. Above all, a ring of stale smoke hung;
the primary colored neon lights became augmented by
the air on their way to the wooden floor. There are
people everywhere, their faces like mouse traps
opening and shutting without any reason at all. He missed
the quiet moments in the apartment: the neighbor
below flapping dirty sheets out of a fifth story window,
the ancient sounds she makes when she first wakes in the soft
mornings. But the road is a song to anyone who has heard it before.
He decides that love is a terrible thing. The interstate
is simple, easy. No turns without fluorescent warning
signs, the emergency lane is the arms of his mother
open always.
But under those lights they sit waiting,
months drink by–
3:00am
they still wait.
touch
Forgot Marriet him and
groped Buntz as manymachines keep the edit
little so no fun anymore.
And soon, Navan
and then touch
the establish a
new man you have.
Me and my best friend started a Tumblr. We get drunk together and yell nonsense into our iPhones and whatever Siri comes up with we make it into poems.
drunksiripoems.tumblr.com/
Follow it.
my chest shakes when I breathe sometimes
because I can’t afford the second round of
antibiotics for my pneumonia. sometimes
it is said that consumption is a very romantic
way to die and I have always wanted to die
romantically. the wind pushes its way through
the empty day like an impatient child. some
days, nothing speaks to me at all; it’s
late and I am still waiting for your heavy breath–
it’s two in the afternoon and God isn’t listening.
sweetheart
she was holding daddy’s hand
in the drug store today. a full
unmarked white paper bag in front of
them on the fake marble counter.
she squeezes his fingers harder and asks,
“will this make mommy feel better?”
he said, without looking at her
“I don’t think anything
can make mommy feel better,
sweetheart.”
