girl in the black bra and panties
the girl in the black bra and panties
was trying to kill us
at least that’s what i thought
stuck in her room with the windows shut and the a/c on
while the girl in the black bra and panties
sprayed enough hair spray and perfume to fog the air
but calvin thought that he was going to get lucky
i had no clue where i was going to go while this happened
maybe downstairs to a well-lit and well-aired room
but calvin never got lucky despite his best attempts
today he spent the day playing frisbee at south park
with the girl in the black bra and panties
while i hung under a tree and read john rechy
because it was too hot to play frisbee
because i hate frisbee and knew i’d never make it
in america because i hated playing frisbee
but calving kept saying, come one, dude
like he needed me to help seal the deal
and when the girl in the black bra and panties
asked me what the novel was about
and i told her male hustlers and drag queens
she said, ewww, and gave calvin some kind of look
like we don’t need this guy for frisbee
but that still didn’t get me out of sitting in her bedroom
while the girl in the black bra and panties
murdered the ozone with hair spray and perfume
while she pranced around in next to nothing
mouthing mariah carey songs and leading calvin on
with cute little smiles
and hours later when we were on mt. washington
with a ton of other people who had
nothing better to do on a saturday night
but blast shitty music out the windows of shitty cars
and wait for the cops to shut it all down
and i was alone thinking about john rechy novels
trying to figure out some way out of pittsburgh
calvin came looking
for the girl in the black bra and panties
with a pack of dudes that we knew from high school in tow
a bunch of guys that we never liked anyway
who wouldn’t believe anything about him
and a girl in a black bra and panties
even if she took them off above the city lights
and threw them both in their faces with a laugh
i didn’t have the heart to tell calvin
that i saw her drive off with three black dudes
laughing, a pounder of iron city in her hand
her legs sticking out the passenger window
of a stark white car
hanging there like bronze temptation
another missed opportunity
in the warm, thick summer night
dara smith’s ass
there was dara smith’s ass
right there on display in her kitchen
a minute before that
i was looking at baseball cards
with mitchell and dara’s sister viviane
when the two girls got into a fight
and viviane pulled dara’s sweatpants down
then there was her ass
dara smith’s thirteen year-old
held-back-twice-i’m-a-bitch ass
and no one went to pull her sweatpants up
not viviane
not mitchell
who covered his eyes
and kept saying, oh my god, oh my god
like seeing dara smith’s tight basketball playing
track and field running, swim team ass
was such a bad thing
dara didn’t even go to pull up her pants or cover her ass
she just leaned stomach-side against the wall
with her hands over her face, laughing
saying oh my god, oh my god too
i couldn’t help but look
even though i hated dara smith
because she was always calling me fat
and because she told all of the neighborhood kids
that ray ray and i were fags
and he and i were currently fighting over that
but an ass is an ass
i knew that at thirteen years-old
and even though this one belonged to dara smith
i was going to look for as long as i could
memorize it and maybe use it against her
when mrs. smith walked into the kitchen
and said, what in the hell is going on here?
before she pulled up dara’s sweatpants
and pulled viviane out of the kitchen by her hair
as mitchell and i
scared shitless
ran out into the february cold
catching our breath a half mile later
to talk about pitchers and catchers heading to florida
and how much we both still loved
miami vice.
conspicuous consumption
my parents were always on me
about how i spent my money
is that what you’re using that money for?
my mother would ask
when i grabbed a box of baseball cards
from the top shelf of the thrift drug
seems a waste to me, the old man said
to the stacks of comic books and music mags
there was one time that i wanted a monkees boxed set
four cds of hits and extras and unreleased stuff
what can i say? i was fourteen
and i loved the old reruns
you’re spending your hard-earned money on that?
my mother asked me outside a strip mall oasis records
if she only knew that i’d still be listening
to the set twenty-five years later
maybe she wouldn’t have given me such a hard time
i never understood why my folks
gave me such shit about the money i spent
it wasn’t their money
it was paper route money that i hustled at 5 a.m. for
part-time job money suffering at the goddamned mall
it was birthday money or christmas money
with the caveat that i spend it on whatever the hell i wanted
i figured it was because we didn’t come from anything
and every dollar that they ever got
had to go toward the essentials like food and shelter
tuition and car payments
they wanted me to keep the money away for a rainy day
save it for when i really needed it
as if the fifty-bucks i spent on the monkees
could’ve wiped away my student loan debt
or helped me purchase the house and car i never wanted
having a little bit of cash just makes some people nervous
i tried not to feel bad about my purchases back then
but there was always a shine that seemed to slip from the items
once bought and the critiques began
the magazines were never as good
the stacks of cards came with guilt
a new fitted baseball hat sitting on my bedroom floor
picked up and dusted off because
you spent twenty-five bucks on that hat
and you’re just leaving it on the ground?
the albums i’d consider a waste
if i didn’t play them constantly
i carry that feeling to this day
i can’t buy anything without considering the pros and con
i’ve gone back to stores two or three times
for movies and music
and still walked away empty handed
i feel a small shame whenever
last train to clarksville comes on my ipod
it drives my wife nuts, i know
this indecision
this waffling over the simplest of purchases
but i can’t help it
i never know if i’m going to need
the ten bucks i spent on a book for my lunch
the twenty i dropped on a dvd for laundry
the fifty dollars that i wanted to blow on baseball tickets
to use for gas for a trip home to see my parents
so my old man can show me his new ipad
and all of the cool things that it does.
poem for my brother
on his thirty-sixth birthday
i am
a two-hundred dollar
gift card for air travel
late in the mail
and i am a pink hooded sweatshirt
for you to give
to the niece that i haven’t seen
in over two years
and i am still that phone call
into your voice mail
that drunken, vicious july night
when our parents drove
from pittsburgh to new hampshire to get you
your marriage more than over
but i am certainly not
the good, caring brother to you
mom tells me that i am
because i am also
forgotten phone calls on holidays
and one line email messages
an unreturned text after a baseball game
and i am
decades of old grudges
and sadness and blame
hateful and wicked
jealousy swinging
from the family tree
a bitter, aging man in the morning mirror
but somewhere in the middle of it all
i also try to be
love.
taking stock
the kid with down syndrome
is pacing back and forth in front of my desk
he’s not a kid, really
although he’s small like one
i have him pegged at twenty tops
he keeps pacing then bouncing on one leg to lean in
going puh-puh-puh in lieu of conversation
before leaning back out and pacing again
i can’t tell if he has a question
or if he needs the key to the bathroom
or if there’s something wrong and i should get his keeper
if they’re even called keepers
i split the difference
and keeping reading the new york times
in lieu of doing my job
h-how long have y-you been here?
he finally leans in and asks
do you mean on this planet? i answer
blank stare
i’ve been here too long, i say
spreading a little sarcasm on the morning
i get another blank stare
before he starts pacing again, going puh-puh-puh
and i stop reading the times
thinking, great, now i’m the asshole
who’s giving a down syndrome kid a hard time
four years, i blurt out
he stops pacing
four years here
six years on the job
ten years in this city
twenty years of working with at least as many jobs
in three cities with two cars and two cats and one wife
who was once one of four girlfriends that i’ve had in this life
in fifteen apartments and homes
spread all over almost forty years on this planet
continuing on and on for an incalculable amount of time
until i’m dead and gone and carbon
and someone else is sitting here in this seat answering questions
how’s that? i ask my new friend
he nods and says nothing
goes back to pacing and puh-puh-puh
while i go back to the times
and an ever-increasingly violent and dull world
where peace and empathy have gone the way of the dogs
and everyone seems to have a cold war nuclear hard-on again
until he leans in and asks me
w-what is y-your favorite color?
and i lean forward and tell him
you know, kid, color is a tricky thing
especially in this country
the girl in the black bra and panties
was trying to kill us
at least that’s what i thought
stuck in her room with the windows shut and the a/c on
while the girl in the black bra and panties
sprayed enough hair spray and perfume to fog the air
but calvin thought that he was going to get lucky
i had no clue where i was going to go while this happened
maybe downstairs to a well-lit and well-aired room
but calvin never got lucky despite his best attempts
today he spent the day playing frisbee at south park
with the girl in the black bra and panties
while i hung under a tree and read john rechy
because it was too hot to play frisbee
because i hate frisbee and knew i’d never make it
in america because i hated playing frisbee
but calving kept saying, come one, dude
like he needed me to help seal the deal
and when the girl in the black bra and panties
asked me what the novel was about
and i told her male hustlers and drag queens
she said, ewww, and gave calvin some kind of look
like we don’t need this guy for frisbee
but that still didn’t get me out of sitting in her bedroom
while the girl in the black bra and panties
murdered the ozone with hair spray and perfume
while she pranced around in next to nothing
mouthing mariah carey songs and leading calvin on
with cute little smiles
and hours later when we were on mt. washington
with a ton of other people who had
nothing better to do on a saturday night
but blast shitty music out the windows of shitty cars
and wait for the cops to shut it all down
and i was alone thinking about john rechy novels
trying to figure out some way out of pittsburgh
calvin came looking
for the girl in the black bra and panties
with a pack of dudes that we knew from high school in tow
a bunch of guys that we never liked anyway
who wouldn’t believe anything about him
and a girl in a black bra and panties
even if she took them off above the city lights
and threw them both in their faces with a laugh
i didn’t have the heart to tell calvin
that i saw her drive off with three black dudes
laughing, a pounder of iron city in her hand
her legs sticking out the passenger window
of a stark white car
hanging there like bronze temptation
another missed opportunity
in the warm, thick summer night
dara smith’s ass
there was dara smith’s ass
right there on display in her kitchen
a minute before that
i was looking at baseball cards
with mitchell and dara’s sister viviane
when the two girls got into a fight
and viviane pulled dara’s sweatpants down
then there was her ass
dara smith’s thirteen year-old
held-back-twice-i’m-a-bitch ass
and no one went to pull her sweatpants up
not viviane
not mitchell
who covered his eyes
and kept saying, oh my god, oh my god
like seeing dara smith’s tight basketball playing
track and field running, swim team ass
was such a bad thing
dara didn’t even go to pull up her pants or cover her ass
she just leaned stomach-side against the wall
with her hands over her face, laughing
saying oh my god, oh my god too
i couldn’t help but look
even though i hated dara smith
because she was always calling me fat
and because she told all of the neighborhood kids
that ray ray and i were fags
and he and i were currently fighting over that
but an ass is an ass
i knew that at thirteen years-old
and even though this one belonged to dara smith
i was going to look for as long as i could
memorize it and maybe use it against her
when mrs. smith walked into the kitchen
and said, what in the hell is going on here?
before she pulled up dara’s sweatpants
and pulled viviane out of the kitchen by her hair
as mitchell and i
scared shitless
ran out into the february cold
catching our breath a half mile later
to talk about pitchers and catchers heading to florida
and how much we both still loved
miami vice.
conspicuous consumption
my parents were always on me
about how i spent my money
is that what you’re using that money for?
my mother would ask
when i grabbed a box of baseball cards
from the top shelf of the thrift drug
seems a waste to me, the old man said
to the stacks of comic books and music mags
there was one time that i wanted a monkees boxed set
four cds of hits and extras and unreleased stuff
what can i say? i was fourteen
and i loved the old reruns
you’re spending your hard-earned money on that?
my mother asked me outside a strip mall oasis records
if she only knew that i’d still be listening
to the set twenty-five years later
maybe she wouldn’t have given me such a hard time
i never understood why my folks
gave me such shit about the money i spent
it wasn’t their money
it was paper route money that i hustled at 5 a.m. for
part-time job money suffering at the goddamned mall
it was birthday money or christmas money
with the caveat that i spend it on whatever the hell i wanted
i figured it was because we didn’t come from anything
and every dollar that they ever got
had to go toward the essentials like food and shelter
tuition and car payments
they wanted me to keep the money away for a rainy day
save it for when i really needed it
as if the fifty-bucks i spent on the monkees
could’ve wiped away my student loan debt
or helped me purchase the house and car i never wanted
having a little bit of cash just makes some people nervous
i tried not to feel bad about my purchases back then
but there was always a shine that seemed to slip from the items
once bought and the critiques began
the magazines were never as good
the stacks of cards came with guilt
a new fitted baseball hat sitting on my bedroom floor
picked up and dusted off because
you spent twenty-five bucks on that hat
and you’re just leaving it on the ground?
the albums i’d consider a waste
if i didn’t play them constantly
i carry that feeling to this day
i can’t buy anything without considering the pros and con
i’ve gone back to stores two or three times
for movies and music
and still walked away empty handed
i feel a small shame whenever
last train to clarksville comes on my ipod
it drives my wife nuts, i know
this indecision
this waffling over the simplest of purchases
but i can’t help it
i never know if i’m going to need
the ten bucks i spent on a book for my lunch
the twenty i dropped on a dvd for laundry
the fifty dollars that i wanted to blow on baseball tickets
to use for gas for a trip home to see my parents
so my old man can show me his new ipad
and all of the cool things that it does.
poem for my brother
on his thirty-sixth birthday
i am
a two-hundred dollar
gift card for air travel
late in the mail
and i am a pink hooded sweatshirt
for you to give
to the niece that i haven’t seen
in over two years
and i am still that phone call
into your voice mail
that drunken, vicious july night
when our parents drove
from pittsburgh to new hampshire to get you
your marriage more than over
but i am certainly not
the good, caring brother to you
mom tells me that i am
because i am also
forgotten phone calls on holidays
and one line email messages
an unreturned text after a baseball game
and i am
decades of old grudges
and sadness and blame
hateful and wicked
jealousy swinging
from the family tree
a bitter, aging man in the morning mirror
but somewhere in the middle of it all
i also try to be
love.
taking stock
the kid with down syndrome
is pacing back and forth in front of my desk
he’s not a kid, really
although he’s small like one
i have him pegged at twenty tops
he keeps pacing then bouncing on one leg to lean in
going puh-puh-puh in lieu of conversation
before leaning back out and pacing again
i can’t tell if he has a question
or if he needs the key to the bathroom
or if there’s something wrong and i should get his keeper
if they’re even called keepers
i split the difference
and keeping reading the new york times
in lieu of doing my job
h-how long have y-you been here?
he finally leans in and asks
do you mean on this planet? i answer
blank stare
i’ve been here too long, i say
spreading a little sarcasm on the morning
i get another blank stare
before he starts pacing again, going puh-puh-puh
and i stop reading the times
thinking, great, now i’m the asshole
who’s giving a down syndrome kid a hard time
four years, i blurt out
he stops pacing
four years here
six years on the job
ten years in this city
twenty years of working with at least as many jobs
in three cities with two cars and two cats and one wife
who was once one of four girlfriends that i’ve had in this life
in fifteen apartments and homes
spread all over almost forty years on this planet
continuing on and on for an incalculable amount of time
until i’m dead and gone and carbon
and someone else is sitting here in this seat answering questions
how’s that? i ask my new friend
he nods and says nothing
goes back to pacing and puh-puh-puh
while i go back to the times
and an ever-increasingly violent and dull world
where peace and empathy have gone the way of the dogs
and everyone seems to have a cold war nuclear hard-on again
until he leans in and asks me
w-what is y-your favorite color?
and i lean forward and tell him
you know, kid, color is a tricky thing
especially in this country
