the silhouette of a grandfather,
painted on an april afternooned window,
gameshow reruns suspended in time,
tic-tac-dough or joker’s wild,
something with tweed sportscoats
and microphones that look like martian antennae.
coffee that’s cold in a styrofoam cup
sitting there all day,
adjacent to a remote
with buttons the size of boggle cubes,
resting on a christmas-themed tv table,
always there, while I come and go.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Thursday, April 13, 2006
shots and her
he came out of her,
he’s back to her.
instead of giving him the tit,
she’ll be making macaroni with meat sauce,
and asking what his plans are now.
he’s back to brushing his teeth
in her kitchen sink while she’s asking
what his plans are now.
of course she’s talking macro picture.
he’s not.
he’s capping the toothpaste,
he’s opening the screen-door,
pending divorce, living at mom’s,
pretending to be proud, he walks to the bar,
thinking about shots and last words.
he’s back to her.
instead of giving him the tit,
she’ll be making macaroni with meat sauce,
and asking what his plans are now.
he’s back to brushing his teeth
in her kitchen sink while she’s asking
what his plans are now.
of course she’s talking macro picture.
he’s not.
he’s capping the toothpaste,
he’s opening the screen-door,
pending divorce, living at mom’s,
pretending to be proud, he walks to the bar,
thinking about shots and last words.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Argument
"You son of a bitch."
Randall didn't really yell it as much as growl it as he came through the door of the bar heading straight for my drinking companion, Howard.
Old Howard didn't have much of a step left after our fairly robust celebration of opening day, or Easter, or whatever excuse we had cited earlier for drinking heavily and immediately after work. Randall's first punch was more like a bear's huge claw, swatting at Howard's head and neck without discretion.
Howard went down from his stool with some general arm-flailing that didn't impress Randall or me. People got quiet as Randall stood there about three feet from Howard breathing heavy. The bartender quipped the perfect bartender statement: "I think his foot was stuck on the stool," and began to move away from the action without looking like he was going anywhere.
Howard and I weren't friends, mind you, and my obligation to defend him from the much larger Randall was close to zero. We had been drinking on a pay-as-you-go basis, so I wasn't owed anything. For all I knew Howard had killed Randall's dog or slept with his wife. In my head, I believe the 'barrier for entry' into this particular conflict was something like Howard's imminent demise. That wasn't in the cards just yet.
That said, I'm not a fellow to give up my barstool and make room for a thorough beating. I remained in my spot at the bar. Randall continued to breathe heavily. The air pumping out of his lungs was sickly-sweet, and I couldn't determine the flavor. Gross.
On the floor, Howard assumed the standard position of a four foot eleven bald man with weak muscle tone and glasses who has been thrown to the ground by a larger opponent: armadillo-ball. There was whimpering coming from his general direction, and it seemed pretty clear this wasn't Howard's first time down there. The bartender's voice floated across the bar saying something about 'squeaking like a mouse,' and I decided his role as a commentator was annoying me.
Randall wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and inhaled noisily at the same time, as if his salivary glands were working doubletime. He was not, however, drooling. Thank goodness. He said, "Get up" twice, once quiet enough only Howard and I could hear him and once again loud enough for the entire bar to take notice. Howard's hands fell away from his face and he stood up very fast. Presumably, the standard high-school bully routine didn't go much further than the swat-kick-spit-disappear four-step tango Howard had been rehearsing all his life. This whole 'get up' business caught him by surprise.
I was expecting a sitcom-perfect second swat, and I was right. Howard didn't go down, but instead skidded with some comic value from the bar to a trivia-terminal mounted on the wall. His elbow -- and possibly his funny bone -- hit the keyboard and he pursed his lips and started sucking air to make the hissing sound that indicates quiet pain. Randall stepped to him and I decided that not enough backstory had been provided for me to make a judgement. But I was interested in preserving the trivia terminal, so I quick-legged alongside Randall and stopped him with a hand to the chest.
"What's, uh, your big problem with this little fella?" I asked Randall. Howard rested a flat, glistening hand against his forehead as if he was taking his own temperature. He rolled his eyes slightly and left his hand just sitting there.
Before Randall could answer, there was an explosion outside, and people screamed like something important was happening. I looked back over and Randall wasn't there. Howard hadn't changed a bit.
After the sirens died down, we all went back to drinking. Nobody had seen Randall before, so it wasn't like we were all wondering where he went. Howard, who I had seen around and thought was mildly amusing, was gone the next day as well.
Two weeks later, someone at the bank let it slip that the safe in the basement had been blown through in the back, and nobody even noticed because the racks inside had hidden the damage. By 'let it slip,' I mean they were fired and came over and told everyone in a disgruntled fashion. It was one of those new-wave banks with long hours and matching t-shirts and weekend promotions. I didn't like using their ATMs because it reminded me of a video game at South of the Border. The story eventually got to the press, and the Virginia B.I. let it be known that they were keeping the heist hush hush until they smoked out some potential insiders involved in the scheme. They showed two headshots on the news.
You'll never guess who.
Randall didn't really yell it as much as growl it as he came through the door of the bar heading straight for my drinking companion, Howard.
Old Howard didn't have much of a step left after our fairly robust celebration of opening day, or Easter, or whatever excuse we had cited earlier for drinking heavily and immediately after work. Randall's first punch was more like a bear's huge claw, swatting at Howard's head and neck without discretion.
Howard went down from his stool with some general arm-flailing that didn't impress Randall or me. People got quiet as Randall stood there about three feet from Howard breathing heavy. The bartender quipped the perfect bartender statement: "I think his foot was stuck on the stool," and began to move away from the action without looking like he was going anywhere.
Howard and I weren't friends, mind you, and my obligation to defend him from the much larger Randall was close to zero. We had been drinking on a pay-as-you-go basis, so I wasn't owed anything. For all I knew Howard had killed Randall's dog or slept with his wife. In my head, I believe the 'barrier for entry' into this particular conflict was something like Howard's imminent demise. That wasn't in the cards just yet.
That said, I'm not a fellow to give up my barstool and make room for a thorough beating. I remained in my spot at the bar. Randall continued to breathe heavily. The air pumping out of his lungs was sickly-sweet, and I couldn't determine the flavor. Gross.
On the floor, Howard assumed the standard position of a four foot eleven bald man with weak muscle tone and glasses who has been thrown to the ground by a larger opponent: armadillo-ball. There was whimpering coming from his general direction, and it seemed pretty clear this wasn't Howard's first time down there. The bartender's voice floated across the bar saying something about 'squeaking like a mouse,' and I decided his role as a commentator was annoying me.
Randall wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and inhaled noisily at the same time, as if his salivary glands were working doubletime. He was not, however, drooling. Thank goodness. He said, "Get up" twice, once quiet enough only Howard and I could hear him and once again loud enough for the entire bar to take notice. Howard's hands fell away from his face and he stood up very fast. Presumably, the standard high-school bully routine didn't go much further than the swat-kick-spit-disappear four-step tango Howard had been rehearsing all his life. This whole 'get up' business caught him by surprise.
I was expecting a sitcom-perfect second swat, and I was right. Howard didn't go down, but instead skidded with some comic value from the bar to a trivia-terminal mounted on the wall. His elbow -- and possibly his funny bone -- hit the keyboard and he pursed his lips and started sucking air to make the hissing sound that indicates quiet pain. Randall stepped to him and I decided that not enough backstory had been provided for me to make a judgement. But I was interested in preserving the trivia terminal, so I quick-legged alongside Randall and stopped him with a hand to the chest.
"What's, uh, your big problem with this little fella?" I asked Randall. Howard rested a flat, glistening hand against his forehead as if he was taking his own temperature. He rolled his eyes slightly and left his hand just sitting there.
Before Randall could answer, there was an explosion outside, and people screamed like something important was happening. I looked back over and Randall wasn't there. Howard hadn't changed a bit.
After the sirens died down, we all went back to drinking. Nobody had seen Randall before, so it wasn't like we were all wondering where he went. Howard, who I had seen around and thought was mildly amusing, was gone the next day as well.
Two weeks later, someone at the bank let it slip that the safe in the basement had been blown through in the back, and nobody even noticed because the racks inside had hidden the damage. By 'let it slip,' I mean they were fired and came over and told everyone in a disgruntled fashion. It was one of those new-wave banks with long hours and matching t-shirts and weekend promotions. I didn't like using their ATMs because it reminded me of a video game at South of the Border. The story eventually got to the press, and the Virginia B.I. let it be known that they were keeping the heist hush hush until they smoked out some potential insiders involved in the scheme. They showed two headshots on the news.
You'll never guess who.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
crumbs
you’re different daily
like bread.
flat and freckled staple
of countries that boast the minaret
one minute,
bloated and glossy loaf of the Ukraine
the next,
toast when you pick up the drink.
unrelenting manna,
contrived like sliced white,
dark drawers keep you from you,
I sometimes happen upon your raucous crumbs.
like bread.
flat and freckled staple
of countries that boast the minaret
one minute,
bloated and glossy loaf of the Ukraine
the next,
toast when you pick up the drink.
unrelenting manna,
contrived like sliced white,
dark drawers keep you from you,
I sometimes happen upon your raucous crumbs.
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