I’ve Got To Write Some Poems

but it’s not for the usual reason,
I just need a dummy; some plastic
shape to square up and plunk in here.

I promise I will return to my usual
practice hereforward, until further notice

this will be for the ages.

KIDS OF THE BLACK HOLE--CH 6

6. The Real Thing.

Jen went away to boarding school the summer after I met her. It was tough watching her go. I had spent virtually every minute with her that spring and summer, and I had grown accustomed to her companionship. She wrote me often though, and came home or to Quarry Hill on weekends if she could. Occasionally, I would take a bus to Albany to visit her and check out hardcore shows.

The scene in Albany was very rugged with a lot of fights at the shows and a lot of scene conflict. That’s how it felt to me, at least, being an outsider. Somehow it seemed to reflect the character of the city itself, bleak and ripe with despair. We managed to have fun though, and I made some friends there who are still friends today.

At home in Vermont I counted the days until Jen’s return. I thought of nothing but her on a daily basis. I lived only for the coming summer and the day she would come home. She was back for maybe a week before she dumped me. Within two weeks after that she had a new boyfriend. I was devastated.

I was good at being broken-hearted back then. I would sit on the street sulking for hours, just hoping she might walk by so that I could give her a hurt stare. Sometimes I would see her at a party or a show and I could do nothing but sit alone and stare at her, sulking, feeling sorry for myself. If she spoke to me I would usually say something poetically pathetic or ridiculously dramatic, and storm off in mock disgust. I tried everything to make her feel as bad as me. I wanted to know that she hurt too and that our relationship had meant something to her, at least. I wanted her to feel how barren I felt inside. Usually she seemed not to notice and I just looked foolish.

I saw less and less of Jen as the weeks went by. She slowly faded away, but her ghost remained, nagging at my soul and stabbing at my heart. I was lovesick for the first time and it was high-quality pain. Somehow I was unable to muster any anger with her though, which is unfortunate. It’s easier to be angry than it is to be hurt.

At this point I was staying at my friend Simon’s place, on College Street, in downtown Burlington. It was one room with a small kitchen and bathroom attached, and a single window that looked out onto a back porch. It was generally hot inside and in a state of disarray. Normally I would crash at Jeffrey’s house when I was in Burlington but he was too crazy to even deal with at this time. He was determined to drink himself to death and I had given up trying to stop him.

Despite the conditions of Simon’s place, it was not all bad. He was pretty good company and always had this killer hash that his friend brought down from Canada. He was also a good listener and had some good advice from time to time, although I was usually to stubborn to take it. He had a pretty high tolerance for my lovesick complaining and we would bounce stories off of each other all night long, paying little attention to what the other was actually saying. So it caught me off guard when he appeared to have some sort of revelation about my situation.

“You know what you need?” he said, with a thoughtful look. “Another girl, that’s all you need and you’ll be fine.

“Fuck you,” was my only response.

I knew that there was no way he could ever understand what I was feeling and his naivety insulted me. In fact, he understood all too well what I was going through, maybe better than I did.

“I saw this new punk chick today,” he continued, oblivious to my anger. “She was so fucking hot, and just your style.”

I didn’t care what he was saying. I knew it was all lies. I knew from my seventeen years of wisdom that I would never love again, and that no girl could ever compare to Jen. I just wanted to wallow in my own misery and experience every second of the pain in my heart. At least I could still feel.

“Shut the hell up,” I groaned at last. “You’re hurting my head.”

The next day was savagely hot. I awoke crumpled up on Simon’s couch, wrapped cocoon-style in a thin sweat-covered sheet. The breeze coming in the open window did little to cut the heat. We quickly got showered and headed out to Church Street to meet Dana. I was covered in sweat again before we had reached the bottom of the stairs.

The sun beat down unmercifully as we made our way up the street, squinting into its glare. It was nearly intolerable after the gloom of Simon’s dungeon. I felt like a vampire or some other creature of the night, caught out of its lair at the break of day, and now forced to brave the burning, stabbing rays of the sun. I was relieved to find Dana waiting for us sucking a blue slushy out of a long curly straw.

Dana was the youngest of Junior’s eight brothers and had therefore been raised on punk rock since day one. I could see his bright red Mohawk gleaming from a block away. It stood up ten inches above his skull and showed no sign of withering in the heat. He wore acid-washed jeans, braces, and fourteen hole Doc Martens in blatant defiance of the summer sun. His long face broke into a grin as he spotted us.

“What’s up boys?” he called. “Ready to make some noise?”

Simon and I had been working on a band with Dana and his roommate, Shan, who was a fairly decent guitar player. Dana was the drummer and Simon screamed his guts out like an angry drunken pirate. His deep growl sounded unnatural coming from his scrawny form.

I was terrible on the bass. I couldn’t even tune the thing. I had another hardcore band with Nick but I was the singer and this was my first time attempting to play an instrument. We jammed out in their attic almost every day despite the sweltering heat. Our sound was a terrible and chaotic noise, but fun is fun until someone gets hurt. We called it the Champions.

We played our four, two minute songs again and again until I couldn’t feel my fingertips and Simon’s voice had decayed into a horrible raspy croak. The sun had retreated into the west, leaving a tolerable warmth to the night as we headed back to town, feeling mentally and physically drained and yet content.

Church Street was not so hectic now that darkness had fallen. The shoppers had all gone home and the shops had all closed. Soon the night crowd would be out in force trooping downtown to hit the bars, but for now it was quiet, the hour of the changing of the guard. We sat on “punk rock”, Dana, Simon and I, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, just talking and watching the people mill quietly up and down the street. Maddog showed up before long to join us in our somber meditation.

I used to enjoy the little things a lot more in those days. I guess it was because I was a kid and everything still felt new and exciting to me. Even when I felt broken-hearted, at least I felt alive. I was battered, bloodied, and beaten, but alive to savor that experience and consciously seeking strength in that hurt. My thoughts were clouded by the hatred, happily married to the misery, and yet secretly my heart clung to some shard of hope, keeping it hidden in the back of my consciousness, lest it be stomped to pieces by the despair.

“Hey, check it out,” said Simon at last, breaking the comfortable silence. “It’s that girl I told you about, and she’s showing some leg this time.”

Down the block a slender young woman stood near a phone booth, apparently waiting for her shorter, stouter friend who was making a call. She glanced our way briefly and for a second I feared she could hear us talking about her, even from all the way down the block. It was difficult to make out her features from the distance, but it was clear that she did have attractive legs.

“What’s so great about her?” I snorted derisively, still clinging desperately to the despair.

“You’ll see. And then you’ll learn not to argue with me.”

Her features became clearer as we slowly approached. Desperately, I searched for some flaw in her beauty, hoping with each step to prove Simon wrong. Her friend completed her call and they moved to a bench behind the phone booth, out of my view. I still had not gotten a good look at her but I was now fairly intrigued, although I would not have admitted it. Our plan was simply to walk by and check them out, but as we rounded the phone booth, somehow we ended up standing around their bench staring at them. She really was a sight to behold. I could no longer deny her beauty. It struck me hard, like a blow to the face, and I stood gaping unable to speak.

She wore a black mini-skirt that revealed a good portion of her tanned thighs, and an army green v-neck shirt that clung to her ample breasts and slender waist. A red bandana covered her short-cropped auburn hair. Her eyes were mesmerizing, gleaming blue and filled with warmth, and her lips were full and red. A silver dog-tag hung between her breasts reflecting the sun’s rays.

“Hi,” she said, looking me in the eyes and smiling.

Only then did I realize I was standing directly in front of her, staring and not saying a single thing. Luckily, Maddog began to speak to her friend and it snapped me out of my daze. She was listening too but her eyes were still fixed on me.

“Nice shoes.” She smiled.

At first I thought she was fucking with me or something but then I noticed her shoes. They were three hole, ox-blood, Doc Marten shoes just like mine. I quickly regained my composure.

“I like yours too,” I replied, sitting down beside her.

I felt encouraged by her warm smile and the sweet sound of her mouse-like voice. My hopelessness empowered me, after all, I had nothing to lose. I experienced a sudden surge of coolness, and before long I was acting foolishly suave and flirting shamelessly.

“Let me scope your tags,” I said snatching the shining piece from her chest and bringing it closer to my face. Her soft flesh brushed against me as she leaned towards me to give me a closer look. Her fragrance made me want to bite into her like a piece of exotic fruit. I longed to just sink my face gently into her white neck and run my hands all over her body. I dropped the tag back to her chest as I realized my hand was shaking.

“I’m Elizabeth.” Her eyes burned into mine.

“I know…..It says so on your tag.”

Our friends had all gone and nearly three hours had passed and still we sat and talked, Elizabeth and I, utterly absorbed in each other it seemed. Our conversations flowed naturally and continuously, and I became unaware of anything but her. I was surprised when she told me that she was only sixteen. I was only seventeen but somehow she seemed so much cooler and so much more down to earth then other girls that I had known, and it made her seem more mature. At any rate, I was completely in awe of her. If there was any doubt it disintegrated when she told me that her favorite band was The Clash. My heart was set, I had to have her.

When we finally parted it was reluctantly and I had promised to call her the next night. I felt like I was glowing on my way back to Simon’s place. I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was and how into me she seemed to be. I felt recharged by her brilliance. My friends laughed at me and busted my balls about it but I could tell that they were relieved that I had someone to snap me out of my depression. It was cool because no matter how much shit we gave each other and no matter how much we enjoyed torturing each other, at that moment I could see that they really cared about me. That, or they were just dreadfully sick of my whining.

I awoke before eight AM the next morning, anticipating the fated call. I could not stop thinking about Elizabeth and I was way too excited to sleep. I over-analyzed the situation from every angle until I had whipped up a cloud of doubt in the back of my head. What would I say to her? What if the connection we had made was only in my head? What if I had only imagined the fire that I had seen behind her eyes? She probably had a hundred guys a day asking her out. What made me different?

It was mid-afternoon before I finally got the guts to call her. There was no answer. My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. Ridiculous doubts began to nag at my heart. I started to wonder if she had caller ID and was avoiding my calls. Perhaps I had come on too strong and frightened her off. Maybe she even had a boyfriend. Finally on the third call she answered.

Upon hearing her voice all of my fears of that moment were put to rest. Once again her warmth and sweet musical voice put me at ease, and I felt like I could tell her anything, regardless of the fact that I had only known her for one day. I felt foolish for having doubted our connection. She told me that she would like to see me but that her parents would not let her go out that night. The uncertainty nagged at me again and my heart began to sink. My insecurities strove for domination of that part of me that is confident, strong and fearless, and the conflict left me speechless, at least momentarily. I quickly regained my confidence.

“Sneak out the window,” I joked. But that was exactly what she did.

Elizabeth’s parents owned a small piece of land in Colchester on Lake Champlain. They had recently separated and her dad now lived in a small cottage no more than a stone’s throw from where Elizabeth and her mother lived. Across the street was a long stretch of beach. They owned a small portion of it, she explained. Summer cabins, all with decks and docks, lined its expanse. Elizabeth instructed me to wait for her on that stretch of beach. Conveniently, Maddog had hit it off with Elizabeth’s friend, Nicole. I arranged for him to deliver us to Colchester. Elizabeth promised to deliver herself and Nicole.

The cabins were all dark as we pulled off the twisted, battered main road and into a small parking area that was little more then a dirt turnoff. The moon was nearly full and was casting gray shadows that leapt and flailed in a primal dance with the thrashing windblown trees. The breeze was wild and warm coming off of the lake, bringing with it a feeling of excitement, yet also a hint of the sorrow that comes with the changing of the seasons, especially from summer to autumn.

A female voice rose in laughter as I stepped onto the sandy beach. Momentarily, it was drowned by the roar of the wind. A branch snapped and I turned just in time to be tackled by Elizabeth and Nicole who struggled fiercely to knock me to the ground.

“Boo!” they screamed with little conviction, and drifted into a fit of giggling that trailed off into silence.

“Um..Hi!” said Elizabeth, sounding shy despite the fierce attack of only a moment before.

“Hi!” I replied unwillingly grinning, and looking her from head to toe with a greedy eye.

We walked up the sandy beach for some time, the four of us, talking and joking, and just gazing at the stars. Elizabeth removed her shoes and walked barefoot through the sand, stepping and hopping lightly to avoid patches of washed-up seaweed and piles of broken timber. She moved slowly but with the grace of a cat, swaying along in the wind and the moon. I reached out to wrap my arm around her as we walked, but she squirmed free and sprinted ahead of us, tramping through the now open sand. I longed to chase her down and capture her in my arms.

But then she had halted, and without warning, unleashed a shrill cry of terror, and came tearing back down the beach at us. I braced myself for whatever horror pursued her, ready to jump between her and an enraged grizzly bear, without a moment’s hesitation, if need called.

“I stepped on a slimy dead fish,” she screamed, kicking up sand as she ran halfway into my arms only to quickly break free.

“Kill it!” she shrieked, seizing a long stick from the ground and thrusting it into my arms.

“I thought you said it was already dead.” I was trying my best not to laugh.

“Ah, quick,” she snarled. Before I could locate my enemy, she had reclaimed her weapon and ran up the beach, impaling a dark, unmoving shape and pushing it off into the lake along with her spear.

Maddog, Nicole, and I could only watch in wonder, struggling not to be overcome by laughter. All of us were thoroughly amazed by her ferocity, even Nicole who was most familiar with her antics. Now, as she turned back to us, smiling with a look of innocence, I could see her embarrassment, red even in the hollow moonlight.

“I hate those things,” she said quietly and we continued to walk.

We came to a weather-worn stone wall, and rested on its cool bricks for a time. It cradled a blackened scar that could have once been a beach cottage, long ago swallowed by the earth or washed out to sea by the rising tide. We sat and talked in the darkness, laughing without care, and ignorant of any worry or hurt. In silence, we simply reveled in the perfect summer night.

At last, Nicole and the Dog resigned themselves to walking up the beach in advance of us, as scout for our imminent adventures. The moon, too, abandoned its vigil and retreated to the clouds, leaving us alone at last, with only the stars as our witness. Before long her hand was in my hand and our lips met, kissing gently, silently, and passionately.

Elizabeth murmured something unintelligible and yet sweet to my ears as she bit my neck softly, sending a shudder down my spine and into my feet. Her moist lips brushed over me gently and her breath was hot on my skin. I could feel her heart beating through her chest as she pressed against me, and her hands shook as they caressed. The scent of her perfume made my head spin, as I kissed her again just to keep myself from gnawing on her shoulder.

Too soon Maddog returned arm and arm with Nicole, emerging from the darkness to spoil our moment. Still the connection had been made. Now there was no denying that she felt that same spark that had ignited a raging fire in my soul. I wanted to fan that spark into a flame and drown it in gasoline until it burnt the whole town into a blackened cinder.

We sat together in the back seat of Maddog’s car as we were chauffeured back into Burlington, arms locked firmly around each other, eyes shining in the darkness. We barged into Simon’s dungeon to find nearly a dozen kids drinking and joking, and sucking down hash knives out of a long plastic tube. They shouted rowdy greetings as we entered, and thrust their wares into our faces, demanding that we join their debauchery. I introduced Elizabeth to the room, then sucked down the best hash hit of my life and sank into the couch.

The dungeon was unbearable with that many people packed into it, and so we were forced to move out onto the back deck. It overlooked two dark alleys that met in the form of an L. Two other buildings with back decks were adjacent. One was short, its peak being level with our deck and directly across from it. Old looking wooden stairs that also served as a fire escape for the entire building, led up and down to the decks of the above and below apartments. I wondered briefly how their occupants felt about our evening’s revelry.

Elizabeth had me utterly charmed. I felt as though I could listen to her voice all night long and only crave more of that sweet sound. She seemed at once very social and outgoing in her conversations, warm and excited, not at all shy or reserved. Her wit shined, rivaling her dazzling smile, and she seemed to dominate everyone’s attention. She definitely had mine.

Now I wanted her more than ever, and again doubt raised its ugly head. I wondered if I could truly make her mine, or if the connection I felt meant less to her than it did to me. After all we had only kissed a few times, and it had been hours since I had even touched her hand. Her conversation had not been centered on me at all for the last hour or so, and she seemed engaged by the rants of one guy in particular who was clearly engaged by her appearance. I still remembered the taste of her lips and the feel of her body pressed against me, the beating of her heart. I wanted to steal her away and gather her in my arms again. I wanted to scream to the world that she was mine.

Still, I didn’t think she wanted me touching her in front of so many people that she didn’t even know. We had only known each other for one day and I was pretty sure that she didn’t want me acting like she was my trophy or something. I could only watch and admire her work.

She moved quickly to squash my doubt. Had she heard my thoughts, or was it written on my face? Regardless, she moved to me, still in conversation with her admirer, and leaned her back against my chest, her hand grasping mine firmly. My arm encircled her waist and we locked together like two pieces of a puzzle. It was hard to believe how perfect it felt. Still, something gnawed at the back of my mind telling me that it was all too good to be true.

“Freeze!” a loud voice called out, stunning us all momentarily.

On the deck of one of the adjacent buildings stood a man, cloaked in shadows, and brandishing what appeared to be gun, waving it in our direction.

“Freeze, Police!” he yelled again. “Stay right where you are.”

The darkness kept him well disguised but he didn’t seem like a cop to me. But we did as ordered and sat in place drinking our beers, until his backup arrived. There were three of them and they came up our building by way of the back steps. They had guns drawn but quickly brought them to bear on our captor, when they spotted him. They shouted orders and moved to apprehend him as we watched, still sipping on our beverages. He protested loudly, cursing as they threw him to the ground and cuff-locked his hands behind his back.

It turned out he had not been a cop at all but only an over zealous security guard from the neighboring building. Somehow he had mistaken us for burglars or vagrants or something, I’m not quite sure how, and had called the police before going vigilante on us. We explained our situation to the real cops, and “rent-a-cop” did his best to explain his. He had a rough time of it and also got a sound verbal thrashing from us on his way out. We heard later that he ended up jobless, with charges of impersonating an officer against him.

Though it was amusing and mildly exciting, that incident kind of broke up the party, and the girls decided that they needed to get home. Elizabeth was quiet on the ride back to her house. In fact, she said almost nothing to me, but still her hand grasped mine with her tightest grip. It was hard to watch her go as we dropped her and Nicole off in her driveway. She kissed me goodnight and disappeared into the darkness as we drove away.

We talked excitedly on our way home, Maddog and I, unleashing all the thoughts that we couldn’t in their presence. It seemed like Maddog and Nicole had actually become a couple now, and he was quite pleased about it. It was slightly amusing because she weighed more then him and was larger than him. She was not abnormally large either; it was just that he was abnormally small. Whatever, I was happy for him. I wished the same was true of Elizabeth and I.

I had been hoping to see her again the next night but when I asked she informed me that she would be busy. She didn’t specify what she would be busy with, and I managed to control the urge to ask, not wanting to seem like I was nosing into her business after only 48 hours in her life.

Again my mind roamed in circles of doubt, running through a multitude of possible reasons why she could not see me the next day. The most horrifying of course, was the one where she would be busy with another guy, perhaps a boyfriend. Yeah, speculation is a bitch.

I only needed to know if I could see her again, and yet she refused to, or was unable to, offer me that contentment, choosing instead to leave me desperately, though secretly, yearning for more. The next day passed without word from Elizabeth and her face lingered in my dreams as I slept that night.

The next morning I awoke to a liquid trickling sound like that of water splashing steadily onto a tile floor. Perhaps the sink was overflowing, I thought with dismay. Perhaps a pipe had frozen and burst and we would soon be wading through six inches of freezing water. I remembered then that it was summer and unlikely that anything would be frozen beyond the barren, empty, wasteland of Simon’s refrigerator. I wiped the grog from my eyes and dragged myself to a sitting position to peer into the kitchen. At first it was hard for my sleep-clouded brain to process the strange sight in front of me.

On the floor in front of the apartment door was an ever-widening pool of yellow liquid. It spilled from what appeared to be a penis poking through the mail slot.
“Arg…Bastard,” growled Simon leaping from his bed to confront the defiler.

We charged for the door and flung it open just in time to see “rent-a-cop” disappear around the corner, heading for the stairs. We pursued him in nothing but our boxer shorts, shouting insults and demanding that he return with a mop. I seized a large bag of bottles and trash that was sitting in the hallway and hurled it down the stairs as he fled.

“Yes, guy! Nice shot!” Simon screamed as it struck the defiler in the back, breaking all over him and sending him sprawling out the door and onto his knees on the sidewalk.

We were then overcome by fit of laughter that nearly brought us down to our knees, mulling over what had just happened. Only then did we notice that all of the apartments on Simon’s floor had emptied into the hall to witness the action.
“Oh. Hello,” Simon called politely to Mr. Davis, an older man who lived next store, and who now stood eying us suspiciously. His two 10-ish daughters peered carefully from behind his back. “How are you?”

“You have stupid underwear,” the smaller girl challenged from behind her old man’s guard.

“Settle down, kid.” Simon barked back in a deep, bellowing voice. “Don’t make me come over there.”

“I don’t want you to come over here,” she snapped back.

“You got that right, missy.” And with that we retreated to the apartment while Mr. Davis’ sense of humor still held and before the little hellion could retaliate.

The day had started out pretty bad but I had the feeling it would get worse. I badly wanted to call Elizabeth, but again the uncertainty was twisting a hole in my gut and withering away my confidence. More so, because I had not spoken to her in more then a day, and because she had not told me to call her or anything. I really didn’t have any idea where I stood with her. Finally I gave in and called her, and my worst fears were realized. She informed me that she was hanging out with her friend Erik that day and could not see me and that she would be really busy all week long. I presented her with many openings in which to offer an alternative plan but she avoided them with casual skill, and I didn’t press the issue.

Dread began to set in as she dropped me further into the ground with every sentence. Erik was obviously a male friend, perhaps her boyfriend. Perhaps he just wanted to be. I had only known Elizabeth for a few days but still the jealousy welled up inside me, turning my thoughts and words as purple as my heart. I pretended not to care and told her to call me sometime if she ever wanted to hang out. I felt utterly defeated and I hoped she could tell that I was bruised.

A couple of tortured days passed where I thought of her nonstop, twisting myself into a dismal mess with thoughts of her lips, and her eyes, and of her breasts. I realized with a shock that she had obliterated every thought of Jen, whom I had dated for over a year, in only a matter of days. I longed to hear her voice again but I was too proud to call her. Sometimes I would focus all my thought on the phone, thinking that I could somehow make her call me by force of will alone. She never did.

One day I ran into Nicole downtown and she seemed surprised that I had not been hanging out with Elizabeth. She assured me that Elizabeth was indeed interested in me and encouraged me to call her as soon as possible. When I finally did it was a brutal disappointment.

She told me that she had a guy at her school who she “sort of” had a thing with. She claimed that he was not her boyfriend but that they hung out a lot, and liked each other a lot, and had known each other for awhile. I imagined that I could hear regret in her voice as she explained that she could not see me anymore because of what was happening between the two of them. Again my heart was crushed under her heel. My fragile hopes shattered against the wall she had raised between us. All along it had seemed too good to be true. Now I could see that it was.

I was hurt and deeply disappointed then, but more than that, I was simply angry. Not so much angry with Elizabeth, but mad at the world, and angry with the way things were. I was literally fuming over the way I had lost her. In a way though, it felt righteous to give in to the anger, rather than fall victim to the hurt. I didn’t give a shit about anything anymore and the hopelessness empowered me in some ways, although it made me reckless as well.

The next few days were littered with drinking, shit-talking, a lot of near fights, and some generally unruly, occasionally criminal behavior. I gave up trying to reason with the rednecks and jocks on the street, and I gave up reasoning with my friends who wanted to murder them. I didn’t give a damn about right or wrong anymore and, with that care abandoned, there was no end to the trouble you could find. I tried everything to get Elizabeth out of my head, but all to no avail. She had infected me with her poison and I was lovesick again, this time for a girl I barely knew.

One week had passed since I had last spoken to her and I was out on the street, carousing with Dana, Simon and a few others, looking to stir up some kind of trouble. We walked downtown as a unit, not quite sure of our destination, but discontent with what was laid out before us.

We turned down College Street towards Simon’s building, thinking to maybe make a pit stop for hot knives but the idea lost all appeal as I spotted Elizabeth walking towards us. I could tell it was her from way down the block and my heart began to pound in my head. I feared it might leap from my chest and run away at any second, if only to avoid the beating it was surely about to receive. She was with another guy, chatting happily as they walked towards us. The jealousy tumbled inside me again, threatening to consume me, and uninvited visions trampled into my head, visions of The Grudge and of his Shining Knuckles, and of broken teeth on the sidewalk.

“Settle down, guy,” Simon pleaded, although I had said nothing.

Her lips curled into a smile and her face lit up as Elizabeth saw us coming towards her, but it only deepened the frown which was already wearing a track into my face.

“Hey,” she called, smiling at me. Her friend was smiling too, with large rows of big, white, perfectly unscathed teeth.

“Hi,” I replied in a dry tone, with a brief glance, and continued past her without looking back.

The hurt of my brutish dismissal was evident in her dazzling, blue eyes as I passed. A dark cloud had come over them, and somehow they had lost their brilliant shine, if only for a moment. With one brutish word, spoken in anger, I had stolen a piece of her innocence, and bruised her fearless spirit. I regretted it immediately. I wanted to turn around and tell her that I was sorry and that I hadn’t meant to hurt her, that I loved her, and wanted to be with her, something…..anything. Instead I kept walking.

Simon hung back and talked to her for a minute as I stalked off. I couldn’t hear what was said, but the distress was evident on her face as I glanced back once, unable to resist one final look. I was glad. I hoped it meant that I at least did mean something to her and that the bond we shared was not wholly in my head. At this point I had forgotten every other girl I had ever known and I needed her to feel for me in some way or I would go mad.

Apparently, she didn’t. She turned from Simon and walked off down the street, before I could think of how to stop her, fading away, perhaps forever. I wondered if I would ever see her again or if she would disappear as Jen had, and become another “what if?” kicking around in the hollows of my mind, forever nagging at my soul.

The next few hours were torture. I followed my friends blindly not caring where they went. I had finally abandoned that last shard of hope and given myself over to the despair. I knew that eventually I would forget her and continue on with my lonely existence, but I didn’t want to forget her. I wanted to know everything there was to know of her and to find out who she really was at the core of her being. I needed to see her again, even if I could not have her.

Again we were on College Street. Heading back to Simon’s now, we passed the same place where I had seen Elizabeth earlier. The moment replayed, uncomfortably, in my head. I could see her smiling face as she approached. And then the hurt in her eyes as they scanned over me, searching for the warmth she had previously found in mine, only to find cold and defensive orbs avoiding her wanting gaze. I wished that I could do it over again. I wished that I could take it back and make it right. I wished that she would be there as she had been, walking up the lonely, deserted street, talking and smiling, free from the burden of the pain that I had passed to her. And then she was.

At first I thought it was my imagination. A mirage, like the hallucinations of a man lost in the desert and dying of thirst, who sees a plush oasis dripping with moisture just ahead, where there is only sand and dust. I rubbed my eyes to dispel the illusion, but still she remained, walking slowly towards me, alone this time. The hurt in her heart was still apparent on her elfish face. She ignored my friends this time and walked straight up to me.

“Hi,” she said quietly, looking more at the ground than at me. “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course.” I motioned for the others to go on without me. “What’s up, Elizabeth?” I imagined that I sounded neutral.

She didn’t answer immediately but paused for a second as if searching for the proper words. “I miss you.” Her eyes still focused on the ground beneath her feet, as if it were some great puzzle to be organized.

“I miss you too,” I said, lifting her chin until her eyes met mine. They were moist and shiny, as if tears might spill from their brim.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with undoubtable sincerity.

“Why?” I knew why.

“Because I hurt you.”

“I was asking for it,” I replied, finally committing to a brief, half smile.
Elizabeth was hard to stay mad at. She was so real and so beautiful inside and out, that it made me want to melt. To see her hurting this way was almost too much to bear. But my heart hardened at the memory of the jealousy that I had felt upon seeing her with another man. I remembered the emptiness that I had felt in the pit of my stomach, and the teeth, and again my thoughts turned to murder.

“So where is your friend?”

“He went home.” Again she looked down.

“Is he your boyfriend?” I asked at last, dreading to hear the answer.

“No.” A smile flicked across her face momentarily as if she found some amusement in that thought.

“Where is your boyfriend?” It had sounded ruder than I had intended.

“I told him I couldn’t see him anymore.” She sounded sure.

“Why?”

She looked up at me then and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Because, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I was frowning still but inside I wanted to jump and scream.

“I was confused before.” She started to cry. Her slender body trembled as I pulled her close, wrapping her in my arms. She smelled sweet and her skin was cool, my neck damp from her tears.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either.” It felt good to drop my guard at last.

“It’s been driving me crazy these past few days.”

“I know.” She was smiling through her tears now. “It’s terrible. I miss you so much.”

“So what are we gonna do about it?” I asked, smiling back at her.

She didn’t reply. Instead she lunged into my arms again kissing me passionately and repeatedly. I held her tight to my chest and was lost to the smell of her hair, and the softness of her skin, and the taste of her lips. All of a sudden, things didn’t seem so bad anymore.

I Can Hear This Song As Many Times As I Want

and no one will care;
but I will.

Leonard Cohen

says everybody knows
lonesome town was
written in Hollywood;
that a near suicide
hoisted his unworthy
caress hence, and so
was anointed.

The Right Bleeding Edge

Spirit,
such as it is,
is committed to it,
at that point where
things come to
a point.
a whittling never hurt,
many times over shunned
whipping; those lessons
are carved into
my torso,
such as it is,
wax for the ages

The American Night

stretched out between my legs, my
strides marked the ages. Later,
I turned. I looked back. I
forgot to burn like
the last match

Aiiieee, My Soul Is On Fire

am I some lucky Gypsy after all
that? Well, all I can say is
well come, welcome, indeed,
pull up a chair, ma chere ami;
now, where were we?

Is This Where I Came In

last time? I know I should remember,
but the facts have not presented
themselves to me on their own;
no, it’s a fact, um, facts,
for me to remember so
can we go through this again?

The Crypt

was laid out fine. I could spend some time,
I reckon, here. From such vantage, possibly,
had I been given the vast vision of
our bodily saints, and, too, the courage
we cut from their hearts, then, possibly,
I, too, could contemplate the ages, as
did these our own risen brethren,
better men than I . . . and like them,
choose to stick it here, choose to
forgo fertile valleys tilled by fancy,
and take it cold. Come on, give me
six, the hard way.

Some Days You Just Have To Grab

yourself tight. How good can it get?
It seems there’s no effective ceiling.
Doing the work, minding the store,
remembering to be kind, if
you’re the sort that needs reminding
of such. Be omnivorously
creative, multi-genre, if possible; but,
above all, do the time, the time,
long time, do it on purpose.
Seriously, where’s it going?
Must I, ever, come down,
get dark again, cruel
to loved ones, thrash again.
If I must, still,
I will always return, always
look to light. I will
be good. I will be true.
I will return, if
I must crawl.

Napolean’s Notable Lack of Stature

possibly played a role in his diminishing.
I don’t know what might do it for me.
Nothing so far is up to the task of
undoing my works. My progeny
cling like burdocks to the curving
surface of the world; my feet coming
loose, I cling by my nails;
my knees could only wobble away.
I lay down, a memory of beginning
in a story I can’t remember
the stance I once had, where
I stood is gone and
not left a mark.

Somewhere In The Swill

of lies and manipulations is a heart of
pure love for her mission: standing up
for fun, where found, a nose for it,
close to the ground, always

leading away. She disappears into what
draws her away from what was, away
into some kind of glory, the way of her
life leads away from me;

I lay the table for her return.

Bury Me Standing

too. My pants and knees are both worn;
sideways comes the bird of paradise

bearing fruit for the queen. Ensconced
in her bed like that she looks at least

approachable. Should I assume too much?
I don’t know; too little comes too late.

That horse she rode in on scares me.
His eye is baleful and gleams in dark.

Last night I held her against the coming
light. You could see right through

into her designs. Her unmentionables
gathered at her feet, saying little;

as I understand is best.

Old Friends Die Hard

and ugly. Sometimes the flag
dips below the surface. Sometimes

you can’t recognize their mark.
Sometimes you don’t know

what to think. Is this where I came in?
Is this where I get off? Get off. Don’t push us;

if we’re hot we’ll arrange a taxi
to the funerary, make our way

on our own. It’s a long way
to Bethel, a long way alone.

So, I'm reading this piece of fiction in The New Yorker,

it's got a great period photo of perfectly-clad punk. Which is right because it's about a young crew of wannabes who have a band, and it's written by Jennifer Egan who's got four novels, so it's a real surprise when almost every throwaway cultural reference is off--hasn't happened yet by that point or just isn't right--not to mention the voice sounds exactly like someone channeling Junie B. Jones at thirteen. So anyway, all this is getting so annoying I'm about to put it down and I look at the cartoon on that page and it's a couple riding along on the back of a dinosaur, and the woman says (no shit): "Can you stop complaining about the historical inaccuracy and try to enjoy yourself for one minute?" And OMG, this is a true twilight zone moment, and really, The New Yorker ought to hear about it, but I can't be bothered--I just wanted you to know.

Wine And Roses

hold the wine; its allure gone,
excepting those priors, no fault

like the present. Chasms I can’t look
into, so deep did they run;

splintery forms, still locked onto
sheer concretized walls, clipped

rebar running rust; here and there,
inexplicably unbound, a tie-wire

rocks on any pickup of the wind,
barely breathed, and silent,

the thruway no longer closed.

Deep In The Mind

of the witchaway resided
an appallingly specific attraction

to the hellmaid: of the order
the strain most difficult

of all on which to impose
even preservative ordinance,

much less the least regulation,
a condition, nonetheless,

to be striven for; in hope’s
pure absence, are dreams born,

after all, escaping?

That Leopards Do Not

in fact, change their spots, is
perhaps true; I‘ve no way to know.

I do know you can’t roller skate
in a buffalo herd—or, should say,

rather, I have it on good authority.
Of this much, however, I’m certain:

each of us will crop the same horse
to the grave as we’ve flogged

getting here. Such nag
might suffice some to glory;

I expect not, but those silks,
be they tailored of pig’s squeal,

or ear, will flap the breeze with
recognizable distinction.

Baudelaire Didn’t Care

when my youth went. Not even where,
nor with whom, when the lone goose of what
little seemed to remain of his memory
first flew into its thicket of cloud. No,
falling through night and recounting
that tale falls to me; he won’t speak. Or
can’t string the words now, slipped wings
muffling his honks at my breast.

It’s Difficult To Take Death Seriously

a good death, I mean. smooth
passage; mind a sieve
leaking everything away;

heralds announcing the dawn,
if you got ‘em.

That's all fine,

just not the heaving fight
of lung collapsing in
on a mind clawed naked.

Dutchman’s dice;

agony’s rim,
encircling.

Had There Been Even One Way Out

I would never have become gigolo
to the Queen. She was well-known to be
quite cruel and overbearing to those
pledged to her service, and in any case,
she wasn’t my type. Give me the
back-stabbing brunette, the
cold-blooded blonde, better yet, once
before they claim me for sod,
a redhead; preferably catholic.

I Danced With Baudelaire

beneath a lemon sky, in
a muslin shift and boots.
He was no hoofer, that was certain,
but he was game. As was I in
those halcyon days before
they came to drag him away.
Scribes from the future, fire
belching from their hands,
these men with no mouths to sing
took him, and held him
at their home away in the sky,
until he ceased to speak
to them at all.

My Advice

to those who die is:
pack a fucking lunch.
And I think this next
might be important:
don’t be expecting nothing.
No double downs no call,
I know, for naught, nor for
not foregoing that last;
but, one might think,
likely, there’ll be in store,
not neither no kind of fast,
but rather, some sure but
slow sort of reckoning,
some dealing out of
just what’s fair, what’s earned;
what’s not, left in the ground.
Or, scattered, as some do
to sea; not me, though
leaving any body’s just
a call to lunch for some,
I reckon.

Three Cards Played Badly

One might not expect
in one’s early twenties
major relationships
in their beginnings
with the mad sex and
various movings in
and out then back
extending perhaps
beyond a year.
Nor should one expect
forgiveness for thinking
a baby might
shore things up

Ordinarily, I Eschew

public demonstrations, but just this once
I’m going to let it fly: a startled bird of vast dimension
hewn straight from me to you. Dear reader, look to
thy cloaking, don’t let me find you, cups turned up.

Must there be more, why not? This darkened time
deserves it well; my sword with wrath is whet,
and grown in truth most hungry. May we a
volunteer, some civilian evil its edge to mettle ?

For soon we go a-sporting, don’t wait till then;
don’t be caught haunched back and shy. Better,
give it up, abjure your nasty ways. What would
Jesus do? I’m not sure. I know the Old Man’s

really pissed. Ah, what have I done? A motive, shit, oh my,
I’ve expressed an agenda. This ain’t poetry, people;
this is politics. And I, for one, have had a gutfull.
It’s now. It has to be. The time has come today.

Ellspeth Niner One Four-O

I couldn’t get through, or reach into her
sack for something mightn’t save me.
Stuff me quick, I lust implored, but

her recedin’ ‘cross der narrows.
I, left anon-digo, and little sign: a fading
bloody ragging, next to nothing;

'fore her share was cut,
I’d be seen some ‘counting up,

some mangled geld, or coin, no less; less
artful now. Give it heart, me frere, or don’t,
fair bonney. Same’s all reckoned true.

Later, boys and girls turned in, wicks snuffed
all ‘round, and native wind just rising, curling
to the miserlou; all benkers wasted, good and

gone or going.

Epic QH Dream

early this morning: I had been gone for some extended period for some reason, and in the meantime, the entire area bordered by Wm.s and Irv’s, the dinosaur rocks, Becky’s, the pentagon, and down to Phyllis’s cabin had been built up into this vast connected warren of ramshackle 60s-type addition structures. Claire was there, one of the herd, a really tiny toddler, but an amazingly fast runner; she knew every little corner and space and enclosure that she could fit in, in that sprawling cast-off plywood and weyerhauser blow-sheet megopolis, and was tearing from one little hideout to the next, showing off to me her QH toddler chops. It was wearing me out, and I remember wondering when, hoping, please, soon, someone would be coming to be on with her.

Blue Moon

I saw you only
through my window;
its frame never moved, you did

turn your face to me, brightening
dawn’s passing; a new day's beginning,
now near burned through, too,

by the endless combustion
that sourced you; was it then,
you split away?

you keep your distance now,
aging surely--perhaps, it’s that,
nothing more;

yet, you balance the night,
then tuck it tightly away,
somewhere, beneath; where

vast vaults of sky
shelter the horizons
you’ll range, but I can’t

know your face, please,
don’t turn away. if it’s bright
now, too bright, yet still, I see

your mystery, finally, I admit,
I can’t reach it; perhaps
I can't hold you

against darkness, again,
this brilliance has me blind;
I'm asking, then,

did you slip away?

Is Everybody In?

spake the lizard king. I sure was. The doors slammed behind me.
An urn tumbled from an ancient pillar. A large black bird took wing.

Slowly easing myself along a low stone wall, with designs on
a sofa-like thing I’d spotted on the far side of the republic,

I tried not to think about how I was getting out. Crashing
sonic booms in the muffled distance. The ground beneath me

was gravelly, uneven, and now I could make out dim light
coming in here and there beneath the walls, which seemed to

circle a thirty foot wide depression, or pit. I couldn’t tell.
Other than that, nothing. More booming. Breathing:

close, beside me. A sense of terror took me, though
I made no move, nor did I even know what I feared.

It didn’t smell well, that much was certain, which was a call
to action. Preferring an uncertain future to the one right here,

I pitched myself headlong out into the dark interior,
and fell into the pit and died. You could say, I should have

stuck, no telling where I’d be now. Yeah, bubba.

Tolstoy Had More Patience Than Me

Hemingway more commitment. Einstein was
probably more gifted, in certain areas, and
Montgomery Clift originally did have a profile.
my contact with you is limited to this,
concealed within triplets of nonsense. The Queen
of York embarked one day, in June, with her
requisite entourage. There was fool King Philip,
I must see you tonight, I’m dying. Call me Zorro.
Call me Zarathustra. Call me Jimmy Jazz.

You Could Say That I Wasn’t Watching My Back

or you could say I just slowed down. Either way it’s the dust clapper
for this kid. Brimstone tickles my nose. And makes my eyes run.

The quickest way home is seldom the best. Nor is the longest to
envy. Not even the truest path has much to recommend it.

Weirdness and whimsy seem best to carry the day. In that vein,
I offer this, Pilgrim, a rest for your head at the end of the day,

a warm spot for your feet.

Commitment To A Cause

in the face of all that defiles it; sticking when
it’s easy to run. These are learned, painfully,
by shortfall. Harder still is giving in
in the right time.

Bricked into his skull was
the secret to surviving,
which died with him.

Meet Me In The Pumphouse, Molly

I feel an aubade coming on. Sestinas resist me
like the plague. I don’t know what it is.

Even the limit lines of the limerick escape me.
But to that I say this,

meet me in the pumphouse, Molly.

a lyric there takes wing, a bawdy and crude verse,
no worse than the first; and in the morning,

all throats will concur round the note:
Molly’s gone for a sailor, and the world is off cant,

our initials scarred into its floor.

Nature or Nurture

No one could decide. The best minds put their heads together.
The boy’s future looks grim. If he were to resort, as we predict,
to low practices and shady activity, if he consorts, with the
poor and malfeasant, no nurture would be obtained,
from the tit of a whore, they phrased indelicately. Rose,
stung to the quick, as it were, took a hike to Toledo, I grabbed
a rail and rode it out. Which took ten years or more. Rose
is a phone psychic now in Vegas. I’m a ball boy at Forest Lawn.
An actor, really. The sensitive sort.

A New Social Governance

were it to descend on our heads
would be cut up, diluted, and washed away
before having the first chance to
collect in our hearts
much less reach our laps.

Après Vespers

we lounged by the carp pool; reflections of her hair
fell across the surface sweeping darkness
willy-nilly. My main maintainers of mojo
shrieked an eerie chord, my brain screamed alert. At
that very moment a grand piano spectacularly
entered our dream, descending all in a rush.
Julliard took her. Then them.

A Narrative Poem

should tell a story, you’re thinking by now, but
I’m way ahead of you; bear with me now: let me
just catch hold of my climbing gear, and here, seat
this hook in under your breastplate, HA, good thing

we’re wearing armor! Anyway, story was
Cleveland Cate, just to lose weight, took a Hummer
for a drive once in Spring. The larks were out, it was
quite a nice day. She thought, I’ll walk back for exercise. . .

Now, don’t get ahead of yourself, I know,
you’re thinking: How’s she get the car back?
I gave that some thought myself but decided, finally,
the last thing I need is a diet.

As for Cate and getting the car back, I'll say this much,
she didn’t. But what that means to you, or to me--or
to anyone, anywhere--is up to each of us as individuals,
I'm thinking. That’s our right.

Anyway,
that’s our story.

I’ve Been Sinking

in deep: every day parting these clouds with cracked fingers
I come upon mind giving muscles a comb-over.

We don't speak, anymore. And my yellow fat, what's still
strung of that, is waved by an uncertain wind.

I’m Still Not Having Any

more’s the case, I’ve hardened
into something resembling the
Masai spear, a fearsome instrument,
deployed just so, though I’ve no
sights on office

The Racist

in the mirror was likewise no prize
in other departments. Juice first gone
to vinegar, then turning hard, and bitter;
whither limb fled afore youth, or the other
way round, he couldn't say, nor answer
the bell at sixty-eight. The hell
with the crown.

Live At Seven

I’ll stop at nothing before total world domination,
and maybe not then.

Furthermore, I’ve an agenda quite prepared for launch,
if I detect the faintest hint of resistance,

which is, of course, futile, and probably, plus that,
it won’t even help.

Nice

how when unguentine at long last becomes strictly unavailable
I’ll already be gone.

Fortunately so, the rub’s off the apple, and if ever an overture
to archery was in order . . . zen em, that would be now.

The Last Time

I saw Fredricka, she was speeding away in a Benz;
flapping pink helpless arms from das boot.
The curses she nevertheless hurled back at me,
from within, were thus muffled, and difficult
to understand, in German, but I caught their gist,
which went something like this:
you evil stupid disgusting prick, I'd rather be
returned this instant to Hades' driest bowel,
and blinded, chained, and afflicted by boils, scabies,
and 2000 species of parasite, forever remain . . .
and so on, she went on; it seemed she would continue
until both the earth and I would be cinders.
I ran beside the car, snapping now and then at
those same plump arms that had cradled me, held
my last best hopes as an honest man.
Once or twice I nipped a tire.
. . . be taken prisoner by Turks and sewn into a sack
and sold, she still railed from trunk, where were stored
as well the spoils of the last nine days, out of reach,
of course, now I’d hooked hard again left.
A bent man’s way passes under the arch.

Haag UnLeashed

what could I do,
what with all we’d been through? They hadn’t
a thimble’s dram uncorked ‘fore I had her forques undone,
not long after she busted all the metal loose of her hind-
quarters, which famously rip-sawed appendages
can do some damage, as well you know, if
you've been paying attention. Haag, Eternal Queen for Life of
the Giant Black Dung Beetles was a formidable foe, which is why
I'd loosed her, expecting, I admit, some smidgen of gratitude
for old times sake, at least. But giving barely a glance at
her former captors, she turned on me, flaring
dorsal flanges furiously, emitting her regal scent
before her, as always, all unknowingly. And oblivious she was
to its effect on me. Stunned again I was, as if from the first,
and it was this, my friends, not the ripping
socket from bone, etc., that did me in.
As far as I know I did die there, and quite happy
I was to do so, in the circumstances.

Last Saturday

Today came the Maker to my door, hoping to collect what I owe
on my sins against his terrible mercy. Good luck on that. Let me
wash your dishes, I’ll crouch by your knee like a dog, but don’t ask me
to pay. I slipped through more thinning passages than even your
hundred fingers could count. What’s that worth? Not

a free ride in sight. Price and accounting’s greasy sheen over all.
I took in a breath. It cost me to do it. He turned out my pockets
and took my home, my bike, and my last-born. She capered
like a fawn at his knee. It should have been me. Now
I’m sitting here with nothing but this gray dawn,

the same tide that turns us over and over and over.

Write Like A Bastard

love like a truck. Lick the lodestone with regularity
at first, then speed up. I got wisdom’s never been written
nor even repeated, I know how to write a score. I know
the last thing ever will be you gasping your love.

And I know how to load the implement, hand her over there,
shorty. I went down early in a dirty fight, thought I’d avoid
a passle of mischief staying out of the way like that. Then
she come along with her needs and issues and cunt and all.

Weighting The Freight

you run across some strange ones. In Calgary, I saw the sky go
lemon from inhalants released unknowingly into the atmosphere
by middle school graffiti artists. You had to give them credit.
The night said, look at me, say my name like you mean it,
and I’ll sing. The forest was blacker than that.

Morning found them of course partially eaten by wolves,
who had been especially adapted and introduced into exactly
that biosphere where the claimant had his left hand taken
at the wrist. To be plain, your honor, is my way, therefore,
let me say, my client deserves to die. Of that

no man can have doubt. A more low-down, evil scuz-ball
you won’t find. He’ll have to do.

Traveling With A Python

can require resourcefulness, and ingenuity, certainly, patience,
I would say, of all qualities one could have as an itinerant python pacifier,
an appreciation of time as process, process as good, as in good for
the python, which is why I should probably insert selflessness

up there near the top.

Treasure

can be found here. Wealth beyond measure will come
to some. Others will find themselves fleeced of even
their shorts. Many will despair. Over there,
leading away up the hill, there’s your path to certain

glory. A way paved in pearl, and a rest for your head
in luxury’s finest moment, stilled and captured.

If you take it, let down pride, leave all starch behind,
it’s easier that way, then when they come
to harvest your head, it won’t shock so much,
I hate surprises, don’t you?

This Shriveled Hunchbacked Gypsy Bitch

had been tormenting me
apparently
for a long fucking time

I tore her off of me and
slung her like a bag o’ dried snakes
to a crowd of some kind of ravenous things

maybe people
maybe not

also there
but on my side

apparently.