Early Morning Sweet Nothings (aka I Wake Up With Enough Morning Wood To Build A Cabin)

2AM again, a restless dream, undressing under twilight
but somebody has to keep the moon company.

Yes, yes, you said. Not yet, no, not yet. 
I call you Gaia and kiss the sands, 
jump and dance and make a mess, 
and I laugh, you laugh, we laugh;
the moonlight kisses us.  

If only I could love you properly- 
my fingers ready, edging, always aching 
for yours. So young, and bold, and hairy. 
Able. Graying. 

No, no, you said. No, not yet, not yet. 
You call me worrier, kiss my hands, 
jump and dance and make the bed, 
and I laugh, I laugh, I laugh; 
the sunlight kisses us.

But my hands start thinning.

Kamikaze Pilots Don’t Wear Helmets

Bed covers don’t cover much-
only cold feet and secrets two lovers share.
particulars wondered out of window sills,
hiding in plain sight from a stranger or husbands eye.
no heat or warmth this dire night,
only bodies and throw pillows
tainted in the thin evidence of s[k]in.
wrinkled, like my grandmother’s hands
before she died and showed me how to read a tarot.

come nightstand, by the record player
a deck of red cards already shuffled,
random, pristine, perfect and predestined.
queen of diamonds across the jack of spades
and I lost the king of hearts a long time ago.
the egg timers clicking, counting down,
a wet shade of grey across our shared living.
room quietly loud, like the gasp before a scream,
and the alarm clock ring sounds like a sigh.

and sunrise, and yawns, and brushed teeth and breakfast
and the roulette wheel of responsibility and love
spins again. my heart winces at the thought,
wondering, unable to determine where I stand,
how I fall. the days keep coming, back to back,
relentless. two people can’t keep a secret and
our winning streaks come to an end.

another hand dealt, we place sour bets.
diamonds over spades, tainted, quiet,
forced to look the other way-

aces high, aces high.

You And Me And The Devil Makes Three (aka I Want To Hold You In Contempt)

Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping  into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans.

Snug, familiar, and warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays.
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.

Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace.

I am undone again.

There’s No Street Cleaning In Providence

Father-

Your days weigh more than the family around your neck.
Nine months and nine pounds without your voice or hand,
my mother called, and you said: “Give Him My Name, Noel.”
And she abided, faithfully, by the promises made
that warm May night. But years proved these words,
like so many other parts of you,
were broken, and so I am yours
in name only.

I haven’t your dark eyes, fair skin or welcome wiles.
That cooing air of arrogance
in your smile, or the graceful way your beard
rises and settles into a dignified chin.
Your daughters are your spitting image,
shorter and effeminate, but telling tales
of their ancestry by the nines
of their soft and thoughtfully thin
eyes, a wild nose above cupid bow lips.

I am not like them;
every camera and mirror whispers,
how my genes have aborted you.
And yet strangers say the strangest things-
like that I am most your son when I look most annoyed.
Something in the nothing of demeanor
makes me summon your image to men and women
that have known you. The passive opening and closing of a fist.
In a folded leg, an unconsciously tapping foot,
staring into the distance with a cigarette dangling from my lip.
All of these acts I thought my self are borrowed,
are not my own, are ghostly references to a man
this man
who grew up growing you
says are bestowed;
are reflections of the seed
being strong.

But…how?

My first razor was from the deli man,
his eyes lost when I asked him how to do it,
until he could understand that I was young and
that I needed. My first day of school was Johanna
ironing clothes, running me over with a lint brush,
combing my hair and reminding me
no girl likes a boy who sucks his thumbs.
Sex came from a box, a secret, a word of mouth
passed along the boys and bus rides.
Shared and studied in the dim blue tint of monitors
and television screens when nobody could see us
in our vile innocence. YouTube learned me
with tutorials, my first suit from my first check
a baggy thing. Green shirt, black tie, but
from your few visits I’d already known
how to make a knot
having been left in one.

Yet I am most your son when I look most annoyed.
The passive opening and closing of a fist. A folded leg.
An unconsciously tapping foot. Staring into the distance
with a cigarette dangling from my lip.

And I wonder, can character carry in a vein?
Have I shed and denied your look but not your scowl?
Am I as doomed as you are, to the rum on my breath
and vagabonding with the boys on Tuesday night’s
rather than with my family home? Father,
our days are numbered like the calendar
and when I’m fugitive to a feeling;
waxing gibbons and poetics at the moon,
I’m tempted to think my temperament is nothing
more than an heirloom. Is a remnant of you
in the recesses of my blood,
and I’m tempted to take a razor and gut you out.

But there is no salvation in suffering your self;
it’s best to leave that to the masochist.

Instead I’ll wear your name proudly,
but like a cautionary tale.
Instead I’ll learn to love
better than how you’ve taught me.

Well.