It ain't all pizzas and cream

Apocalimbo

 

From the road I see the city

approaching. It reaches out with iron rails

 

and pulls itself toward me like a soldier

belly-deep in the mud. Doctors and nurses

 

clamp off arteries among the wounded. Cars

pass in and out of bullet holes. Iron bridges

 

curse like snakes. A three-legged dog hobbles

from one overturned trash can to the next. 

 

If he finds food, I tell myself, I will take it

as an omen of good fortune. If not, I will

 

eat my guardian angel, before someone else

does. 

 

 

Sorry

 

 My mind was a dark alley.

You were there.

Despite the shadows I knew

it was you. I was

taking my typewriter to the shop.

The “i” was stuck.

There was no way to explain

without it.

 

Carnivale

 

At night the house makes strange,

throaty sounds. My thoughts hold hands

 

to keep from getting lost. A gambler'a 

ghost paws through unseen cards.

 

The carnival ia in town.  A roller coaster

on my lawn rumbles above coffins filled

 

with matchsticks. A hawker tells me:

salvation is easy as a pink teddy bear.

 

Just pop the balloos. 

A nickel a chance.

 

 

 

A small spot of sun

People clot below flags, pool around teams, and stack in pews. We allow others to author our ideas. When in groups, we become brave--but it is not the bravery of the peace march, it is the bravery of the lynch mob. Social media, for all its good, has allowed bullies new masks, has provided snipers new perches. This is not a rally to some new cause. It ia not a call to arms. More, it is a challenge to our adaptability. As a species we have faced the challenges of drought, flood, storm, quake, tsunami, wildfire, volcano, famine, and disease. What we cannot outrun or outwit is ourselevs. Our own selfishness, our quickness to form tribes, to circle wagons, to be the third man in. Social media has allowed one to shift alliances more often than a pro wrestler. One day a good guy, the next day bad, and back again. It has allowed us to hold a magnifying glass to the smallest dustup and distort it to the significance of a pitched battle.

I am very tired. I have no money and bad teeth. I'm going to sit out awhile. I'm going to concentrate on my writing and my photography. I have deactivated my Facebook account, at least for the time being. You may notice over the coming weeks seeing less of me here and on Twitter. 

If there is a small spot of sun in the garden, I'll be in it. 

One for Jules

A dear friend is recovering from surgery for eye cancer. Yes, I said EYE CANCER. It sounds frightening just typing it... it has been an espceially cruel setback for someone who loves books and the written word as much as she does. And almost as daunting as the disease are the medical bills.

She's doing well physically after the surgery (which was successful!)  but could use help with the staggering costs.

To read more about her story, click the link.

Thank you.  

Holding

Ty was a terrible liar. He told so many untruths that he often forgot what he'd said to whom, and as a consequence he was often either laying low or sporting a new bruise. But when it came to hustling on the street, few had his charm. He was one of those people others just wanted to like, so he took liberties.

One night he was panhandling in front of McGlinchey's with Phil, an older ex-con with large eyes and an auctioneer's voice. "You don't hafta be a Rockafella to help a fella!" was Phil's best line. I was making the rounds from bar to bar, slowly getting drunk. When they saw me, they both took on an expression of urgency. "Oh man," Ty said, "we're in trouble." I asked him why, tho I knew it would end up costing me money. "You know that club," he asked, "where them young Mafia boys hang out?" I knew the place. It was an upstairs, after-hours club with all the street-facing windows blacked-out or boarded. Rumor had it that Skinny Joey Merlino hung out there. I'd never been inside. "Well," Ty went on, "one of them boys gave us some weed to hold, and we gave it to Tamika, to hold." I didn't know who Tamika was, but figured out the rest. "So," I said, "the weed's gone?" Ty nodded. "And now we gotta get it back to them by midnight. Or they gonna kill us." It was like a bad movie. I asked how much weed we were talking about. "Forty," Phil said. "Forty DOLLARS?" I said, "nobody gets killed over forty dollars worth of weed." That didn't seem to help. "We'll pay you back," Ty offered, tho he and I both knew that wasn't going to happen.

A normal person would at this point ask WHY some junior mobster had asked two known hustlers to "hold" a bag of weed for him and why that hustler would ask a third party to hold that bag of weed. Knowing Ty as I did, the story would have been a long twisty road lined with shadowy half-truths.

I was working at the time, and was half drunk, so I went to the bank machine and took out the forty. "You guys each owe me a quart," I said, as I handed Ty the money. "And don't fuck this up," I added, "this is one-time only." Both Ty and Phil thanked me, and swore in praise-Jesus terms that I'd be repaid. Then Ty ran down to the projects to score the weed, and I continued my rounds. A shot and a beer here, a shot and a beer there.

At midnight I found myself circling back to a spot near the parking lot where Ty and Phil were supposed to hand the weed back to the mob kid. Sure enough, there were four figures gathered in the corner of the lot. I couldn't make out who was who. I sat on a nearby ledge and watched. Whatever was going on, it was hushed. No shouts, no punches, no gunfire. After a few moments, the four parted ways, two in one direction and two in the other. The next evening, Ty and Phil were in their usual spot. "You don't hafta be a Rockafella to help s fella," Phil said, and held out his hat. I never did get those quarts.

Our Best Work

 

The lunch counter waitress is made
of one part wood, one part leather,
two parts Dr. Scholl's inserts,

one part a son by a prior marriage
one part a cloth doll she lost at age six,
and two parts rain. She wipes down

the counters at the end of her shift,
and complains about the new girl 
she's been training all day.

"Nothing against her," she says,
"It's just that I do my best work alone."

"We all do," I tell her,
"we all do."

Old Spice

 

I was usually drunk all night and nauseous all day. Navigating between the two, I made frequent mistakes. While dressing for work one day I realized I was out of deodorant, so I stopped at a small mom-and-pop drugstore on my way in. But when I got there I couldn't think of the word "deodorant." I just stared at the druggist and mumbled. Exasperated, I said, "Don't you carry, you know, regular stuff?" 

He asked if I needed a laxative. 
I told him no. 
"Condoms?" 
I shook my head. Finally, I made an apish gesture toward my armpit. 
"Aisle six," he said. 

I brought the deodorant to work in a little white bag, and went straight to the men's room. Fortunately it was empty.I took off my shirt, slung it over a stall, and applied the deodorant. Then I had a sudden urge to vomit. I charged into the stall and let loose. When I came out, my supervisor was at the urinal. I was shirtless and still gagging a bit. "Morning," he said. "Morning," I said. He washed up and left. I splashed my face with cold water, put on my clean white shirt, and walked to my desk. Ready as I would ever be.

The Mend

I was living in an apartment the size of a walk-in freezer. The drinking had been wearing a hole in my stomach. There had been warnings: knifing pains after lunch and dinner, and sometimes a swirl of pink in the bowl when I vomited. My doctor was an old guy who smoked. I liked him. He told me to lay off the alcohol until I could get scoped. "The endoscopy's in two weeks," he said,"try to be good till then." 

He gave me some Librium to make the wait easier. Quitting cold turkey was never easy, tho I had done it for brief periods before. Usually, however, I tapered off first to make the transition less jarring. This time, I didn't have that luxury, but I devised a system using nonalcoholic beer and Librium. I didn't have a TV so I spent my evenings reading or writing. The first three nights were the worst. I made myself pretend I had the flu, had my Coor's Cutter and Librium, and went to bed at nine. After that it was easier. A little. 

On the day of the procedure the nurse had me strip to my shorts and put on a gown. Then a tech came in, told me to lie on the table, and sprayed my throat with a numbing agent. "We're going to give you some i.v. Valium," he said. The shot went into me like a half dozen Saturday nights. "You might fall asleep," said the tech. "I doubt it," I said. 

When the scope entered my throat, I gagged a moment, then the tube went down. It was a strange feeling, a bit how I imagined drowning might be, minus the fear. I kept my eyes on the monitor. Now I knew why people referred to their innards as "plumbing." I couldn't make any sense of it. When it was done, they pulled the tube out. "So?" I croaked, "whadya see?" The tech wouldn't say. "There's a cot in the room where you changed clothes," he said, "try to take a nap." 

I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. The cross-tolerance between alcohol and Valium meant I was barely buzzed. After the door closed I got dressed and started wandering around, trying to find my chart. I found some folders, but not mine. Then the nurse came in. "What're you doing?" she asked. "Not sleeping," I said. "Have you arranged for a ride home?" she asked. "I don't need one," I said, "I walk around much worse off than this every night." She paused a moment. "Well," she said, "WE can't let you walk home like this." My apartment was only three blocks away, but the nurse stood firmly by policy. 

At the time, my wife and I were separated, but I didn't know whom else to call. When she arrived, she wasn't happy. "I had to take off WORK," she said. "It wasn't my idea," I told her, "I wanted to walk home." "What did they say, I mean, about your stomach?" "Nothing yet, the doc will call." Outside, we hailed a cab. It was the shortest cab ride ever. I got out. My wife stayed in the cab and went back to work. 

That night, I had my usual Cutter and Librium and went to bed. The next day the doctor called. "Good news, no ulcer, just an erosion." I exhaled. "You probably did have an ulcer last month, so don't think you're off the hook. If you need a refill on the Librium, call my office." I thanked him and hung up. Then I went out and bought 4 rolls of Tums and walked to the nudie bar. "Bud," I said. I took a sip, then a Tums. The pills were fruit flavored and didn't mix well with the beer. But the knives had stopped. Frankie Goes to Hollywood came on the jukebox, a new girl took the stage, and I ordered another beer. I took a sip and had another Tums. I was on the mend.

Hell

 

 

I keep my shelves lined 
with spirits, each 
in a bright glass 
bottle. 

Green, blue, 
rose and amber. 
At night 
I can hear them
rattling up there. 

Some want love. 
Some want revenge. 
Some want power 
and fame. 

The last time 
I opened one of those 
bottles, 
it was hell 
getting out again.