Fedora
window arteries of black rain
stream through red apoplectic
lights of neon and bitter halogen
where the moonlight dies reaching
for empty holsters, guns gone,
carried away by the hands of the clock,
hour of agony in this office overlooking
34th Street, rain and chaos, knots of taxis,
umbrellas like beetles scurry to subway
stairs down into the darkness, but up here
there is only death and dust, each a stabbing
accusation telling me there is a grinning
devil somewhere out there crushing a headstone
with delight; he waits with a gasoline smile,
as I wait with an empty whisky bottle,
a hand without a gun, white bones burdened
by shame, craving time to make this last crime
correct, but all the time I already wasted
in this life is just an unsigned confession
they’ll lay on my chest before they close
the casket, a sentence six feet deep where
I’ll have to make do with unrequited love,
unfinished business, a silken kiss in the dark,
but never the red curtain falling to applause,
my heart forever one beat shy of love
Transience
Stray and I talked about walking from New York City
to San Francisco and I always worried he’d kill himself
before we had the chance, but then jobs and money started
coming in again and those long walks along farm roads
faded, the nights under train bridges dissolved, the crickets
and little crinkle of fire deafening in our ears as subways
and traffic held us in place with new jobs, new homes, new
futures, and maybe it was for the best that we didn’t go…
but
Stray, old friend, I wish
we tried—the fact that you even asked
was joy enough for one wayward lifetime,
and I thank you
Driver Dave
he drove my Toyota backward
all the way through Greenwich
I followed him on foot, such a
lonely parade at 11 at night
a small farm town on the edge of
nowhere, the clutch long gone
the only gear that stilled worked
was reverse, so he said he’d do it
I thought it was too crazy to try myself,
but he made it, 5 mph the whole way
Dave, browbeaten by life, living in a rented
room after his wife asked for a separation
though not a divorce, that was too much,
too final, too sad, but he’d never return
he’d spend the rest of his days driving
backward through his life, slow and crazy
willing to try anything, nothing to lose,
later stealing my car from the mechanic’s lot
when the mechanic tried to screw me over,
leaving burn-out ruts in the muddy lawn
the mechanic calling me, screaming for his bill,
but Dave said, forget him, he doesn’t know anything
and returned to his rented room to drink alone
as I listened to the phone ring and wonder what to do
my muddy car hiding under a tarp, the clutch gone,
and so many miles ahead of me with no way forward
A Case of the Mondays
it is 4:30 a.m. and dawn is
somewhere—but not here
sirens came through the night and
the curtains, but now—silence
they say they’ll pay us double
they say they’ll pay us triple
they keep the lights on and
the registers open, they keep
the time clocks ticking even
though the world clocks are
grinding to a halt on every
continent around the globe
it is 4:45 a.m. and dawn is
not coming—not anymore
of course, the sun will rise but
that isn’t the same thing, is it?
they say the stock market crash is
good for us, it will help, like they
said the stock market soaring was
good nine months ago—it’s all
bedtime stories told by men in
ties who don’t know anything
about anything worthwhile now,
but they say Wall Street is open
even though Main Street is dead
it is 5:09 a.m. and dawn is the glow
of distant fires on the horizon
you pick up your phone but there is no
society found in those wires anymore
your work badge and the last of your
sandwich meat in the last of your bread
waits in your work bag by the door, as
smoke fills the sky, blurring the neighbor’s
American flag and red political lawn signs
that neighbor hasn’t come outside in days
that neighbor will never come outside again
it is 6:30 a.m. and you hope the end
will be quick, but you also know better
you rise; you open the door to another shift on Earth,
the monetization of your soul relentless and unending
and disappear
into the fog
Dumpster Fire Press 