Exit

He looks to his pocket
to quench his malnourished blood
and what little pride is left,
after hours of panhandling change
with an empty coffee cup.

Looking to his pocket

he finds only a hole

and remembers the day
at CVS when he shoved

some marker
into his pocket with haste
as not to be seen
and didn't realize

he ripped its seam.

All of this absent

on the cardboard sign

he wears that reads "EXIT"

without the word.

Why I can't sleep

I think it's just because
I want and need to be
with you, my friend.
You're all I think about,
see, feel and hope to hold and touch.
Such a large part of my life,
you've become,
that my body has come to need
you
to be sufficient.
You simply make me
who I am
and have tremendously aided
me
to become the person
I am,
which will in turn,
somehow,
enable me to be
this person
I've never been in a hurry
to become.
I'm finally here
and things are going well;
so I'm excited, anxious and overwhelmed,
for once,
about the positive possibilities,
about our lives, together--
my life with you.
So when you tell me to
spray lavender,
drink chamomile tea
or warm milk
(forget counting sheep)--
know that it's with
only you
that I
can soundly
rest,
if not sleep
to dream,
to wake beside,
to watch us grow,
to believe and read
our two stories
in one
together.

P.S. You're the reason I smile.

Random Thought of The Day

While trying to explain something I can't quite grasp, I jotted down an attempt to articulate my thoughts:

I feel it’s something inherently inside all of us: the urge to know, that incessant need to explore possibilities not only out there in the unknown but also to draw on the potential somehow laying dormant inside of us.

What do you know about that?

August 27th

I feel like tomorrow's Christmas

but there are no presents

to unwrap,

no lights strung

on railings or gutters--

nor does the distinct smell

of winter

warm the air.

Instead, it's August

and we'll wake to check

the island's weather

because someone

named a storm

to rain on

our parade.

July 16

I knew it was a strange place, when the water tasted like the air smelled. The heat is thick in its stench, hitting me in the face when I walked out the door. It’s one thing to visit a place and not want to live there but quite another living and working there because it’s somewhere else. These thoughts bounced from synapse to synapse, as I lay half-nude in my one bedroom apartment. The mid-July humidity banging down my door, after chasing me up the stairs only to find it had seeped through the screens of my windows.

This place to hand my hat without a coat rack in sight and the shirt torn off my back. I lay awake many nights and think about the cottage. There I would look out over the water as flat as glass. Then, I take notice of the moon, for which I am grateful, without which I could not see the deer walk across the pebbled New England beach without a care in the world or fear of being sought out or followed.

I would sit for hours if the no-see-ums would just let me be. Another reason to light up a secret cigarette, some may claim. Even when the tide has gone out and the mucky sands are exposed, the smell of the air off the salt pond is fresh as if it were protected by the surrounding trees. I’ve often despised the smell of accompanied by a sycamore tree and at the cottage there are none. Perhaps this is just another comparative ideal for me to separate this from that, here from there, foreign to familiar. Comfort and peace of mind are found in our own ways. And for many who find themselves somewhere other than that ideal attempt to create a space, “a room of one’s one.”

Ripper

Tonight, I saw an outstretched slug,

for the first time in my life.

It had a peculiar beauty that was quite appealing—

peppered with black and white spots like a bratwurst—

the hot black pavement its coals.

It moved slowly and sizzled in the summer sun.

That reminds me:

the last slug burned into my memory

turned colors and shriveled up

when my brother sprinkled salt all over it.

But that was years ago

and now it makes me wonder

what an unsalted slug tastes like. 

Doers and Dreamers

"Failure's hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you're successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever." Po Bronson

How often do we find ourselves sacrificing and putting off our own dreams to make others’ possible? Why must our passions remain hobbies while others’ are dustless and well-oiled realities? These thoughts I entertain often, for I am a dreamer. I, certainly, do not subscribe to the group who says there are two types of people, however. These two groups, of course, are made up of doers and dreamers. Dreamers would not be dreamers without doers and so forth. But who’s to say where to draw the line, that is, if one must create yet another construct, classification, or division.

My siding (there we go again) is that many often dream while doing and do while dreaming. This, of course, would include the many individuals who have “fallen into” something or feel they have otherwise “settled,” at least that is how they feel inside—a dialogue with their repression, angst, and denial. Self is important in this respect but not to the extent where we are unable to step outside ourselves to consider the reality we may, or may not, feel a part of. Many focus on asking themselves, “What about me?” instead of promoting the search for self and identity in questioning, “Who am I?”

In any case, if one group was to consider the other group as, say, “dreamers” than would that group be labeled, by default, the doers? And, would these dreamers be considered selfish because they feel they are more in tune with their self and identity? Are doers, then, worried about themselves and thereby take certain paths of actions that enable them to do instead of dream? Who knows where the sure route leads. Who’s to say that one is correct and the other flawed.

Peering into contemporary times with a careful perspective, I would not necessarily assert that celebrities and media sensations have replaced the bards, artists, and thespians of the past. Nor would I assume that the gladiators of great Roman times are now the professional athletes of today’s stadiums. But, if either were true, it would not be hard to see that the doers of history were very much dreamers. They say that the annals of history rarely record the lives and works of so-called dreamers and those who chose to stand-by—but I wouldn’t be too sure of that. 

Hookie

As my eyes drifted from the proposal,

I caught Frank's eyes. 

He, too, was not paying attention.

My eyes continued to 

fall

to the arm of my blazer

where I noticed a white feather. 

I closed my eyes, 

for only a moment

and the scent of vanilla and mild lavender

rushed into my nostrils--

the smell of your pink t-shirt sheets.

The feather, 

from your down comforter, 

imbedded comfortably in my suit linen--

nowhere to go, nothing missed, and one of many.

Yet, one of a fortunate few

laying nestled next to your body--on top,

beneath, and surrounding you

on your deserved day out of work. 

Your feather was still there, 

where I opened my eyes

Lost in yet another presentation 

of suit culture.

I dropped my pen on the floor

and plucked the feather, 

as not to be seen. 

I spent the next twenty-minutes

holding my capped pen loosely in my right hand

and your feather

in my left hand

closely to my cheek. 

[Untitled]

An elderly man,

bulbous nose and belly 

in mismatched sweats--

absent of drawstring 

or any form of elasticity

to benefit his pride--

showed his wrinkly ass to most of 

Penn Station.

Hobbled along, 

a folder of x-rays in his hands

and a walker-type cane in the other--

4-pronged like the clawed feet

of the furniture at my grandma's.

Everything about this man said "Help."

A hand down the stairs, 

a finger gesturing the direction to the elevator

instead,

or an extra arm to hold his x-rays

while he pulled up his pants.

More attention, rather, was paid

to the homeless man

who scurried around the station like a rat.

He, however, was looking

for his left shoe. 

Lunch Break Bliss

It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve been living in New York on a somewhat more permanent basis. As my pull towards the beach and oceanfront cannot be denied, I have found a place to sit and reflect in the same way I do in Narragansett. The beach sands are much coarser here and the rocks are covered by new shades of seaweed. The kelp, uprooted and relocated to the beach, also follows suit.

It’s rainy today but I will not let the droplets coming in my opened car window bother me. The breeze off the water consoles the gloom in the gray skies above. Despite the rain, quite a few boats are being launched from the nearby ramp. Although this bay town may not have the reputation to rely on commercial fishing for livelihood, I see many fishermen everyday.

I sigh and tell myself that it’s not the same; not even close. But at least I have this spot unusual as it may seem.

The sounds of the passing commuter trains coupled with the occasional boat whistle and the activity on the bay is quite amusing. Although I hear for horns today, the screeching sounds of the trains breaking trumps the locale. There is a beach across the bay with sands of a different shade, surrounded by enormous mansions reminiscent of Newport and Jamestown. There are many gated communities and driveways that stretch over a quarter mile.

For all of the writing I’ve been doing lately, between the book, proposals, and marketing materials, I have certainly neglected the pen for my own devices. But this place, with the docks, gulls, breeze, and crossing fishing boats, will provide, at least, lunch break bliss.

[Untitled]

broken lampshades

on unplugged lamps.

unscrewed light bulbs,

on-turned switch.

unfinished paintings,

rivers unabridged.

leaves lie unchanged,

while seasons have come

and gone.

the fall brings a certain warm

followed by cobwebs, mice, 

and a dust monster.

he lives in the boiler room

behind sometimes unlatched doors.

he is quite shy--

this painter with bad lighting.

Rearview

You weren't there this morning,

when I woke

but remnants of your face shone 

in a corner of my eye.

But then again,

that could've been the moon

off in the sky,

premature,

or late afternoon;

It shared your space,

in an attempt to steal

your much deserved attention.

I saw you through the window outside

there

by the building

before your afternoon break

hazy, through the humidity of late July.

You wore orange, perhaps oceana, 

certainly pink later on

when I adjusted

my visor in the car.

On the drive down, you blinded me

then followed

in pursuit of the night

when darkness accompanies

and our rearview bliss is hours away.

For now you visit Harold in Tokyo.

For Now

Another night comes and I've still yet to sleep

under the covers

to pull at the sheet

tucked so neatly into the crevice

between

the mattress and boxspring.

The dark-blue fleece throw

unfolded and spread out

atop the comforter--

quilted, patched, and floral--

folded up again

to be placed on an empty trunk

at the foot of this bed

in the morning.

A bed that is not my own

fills some space in a corner

in the basement.

That's where I'll lay for now.

I think I feel the ceiling panels calling,

although I cannot count-to-crack their code

of small holes

in the dark

of this cold room.

Blue In Green

Seeing that I will be “moving” to New York under more permanent circumstances in the immediate future, I suppose it hasn’t really sunk in. That is, until today. Perhaps, it seems as though my finding a job is somewhat anti-climatic. Although I’ve always wanted to get further away than Fairfield, CT, where I went for undergrad, I have some reservations about leaving Rhode Island. Not so much for Warwick, in particular, but more so Narragansett, the beach house, and familiar waters. I went there today, unexpectedly, as I had to get my laptop serviced in South County. If you’re familiar with the area, and the Rhode Island logic of making the “trip” worth it, even though it’s only 20 minutes away without traffic, of course I had to keep driving to Route 108. That’s where the beach house. Yes, the one alluded to in “Indian Rock Farm Road” and “Boston Whaler Blues” http://leaningtowerofsuburbia.blogspot.com/

I drove down the private dirt road, keeping it under 20 per request of the signs telling me to “Slow Down You Move Too Fast” and “Watch Out For Playing Children and Crossing Animals.” In the summer months, the road is dry from the heat and dusty from the elevated traffic. Today, perhaps as an after effect of the winter snows and subsequent melts, the road was quite smooth, although wet, and quiet when not bumpy. As today was overcast, the sky served as an appropriate backdrop for the gloom of leafless trees, dead foliage, absent grape vines, and pushed-over eel grass. I can remember as a child we would go down there as a family during the winter months, even if just once during the off season. There used to be a small deli, next to a small house and farm, where we would buy a rotisserie chicken or two on the way down Route 4. My parents and grandparents would also speculate that the family who ran the farm owned the deli. Either way, the deli is no longer there but the small white-almost-stucco color square building remains as, I would assume from the sign, a place that sells “ROSES.”

We would pick up fallen branches and sometime kick the dead seaweed that the tide dragged up on the lawn into the woods. I can remember peeing in an empty rust-ridden black and yellow Chock Full O’Nuts can, even though my brother and I had the necessary equipment to go behind the tool shed. The steps up to the deck would creek, the third one up, the first one down. The faded two-by-four railings often matched the color of the sky. From the outside, some people might be instilled with an eerie sense of absence the winter months bring to a seasonal tourist town. Not to me, it’s so much more than that.

We’d make our way into the house and it would be freezing. More often than not, we’d have to bring in some plastic chairs from outside to sit on because the couch cushions were put away in trash bags and taped up so the mice would not ruin them. Long before my grandparents invested in a gas stove, we would make a fire inside the black iron stove with kindling and the driest pieces of driftwood we could find, often browsing through the newspapers left in the summer months for just that purpose, before twisting them in knots and adding them to the fire. There we’d sit, typically without a table and sometimes unfolding the aluminum foil the chickens came as drop cloths for the thin beige carpet.

Even then, and despite the temperature difference between the area closest to the wood burning stove and the porch, I would just want to look through the windows out to the access road that leads to Galilee, the ferries, and Great Island. I can remember being scolded for wanting to lift the screens up to get the best possible view through fogged up panes of glass. That same window, the one closest to the back door to the deck, holds with it a memory of being started by a praying mantis and the window falling on my thumbnail as a result. Oftentimes, when I catch myself biting that fingernail, I remember how long it too to grow back that year. In a weird way, maybe that’s why I like biting them so much.

Today was different, as I felt quite alone. Two swans were out in the middle of the pond—too far off for me to see them clearly, but surely they were swans. There were no deer on the drive in. It’s not uncommon to see at least one, especially at this time of year. The ospreys, too, were missing. The water was still, even though there was a slight breeze, contributing calm to my pondering. Even in the on-and-off cool drizzle of mid-March, I had an almost uncontrollable urge to quahog. I even took a casual jog back to where I parked my car to check what types of clothes or blankets I had to console my would-be shivers and stink of salt pond muck. Last summer alone and this is not a boast, as I simply love getting quahogs, I must have gotten over 1,000 with my bare hands and feet. I love doing it and, as a process, it’s quite hard to describe. It’s as if my hunter-gatherer instincts kick in, I set a goal, and I’m in the water for hours. As kids, my grandparents and parents would try, unsuccessfully, to wave us in. During low tides, particularly after a full-moon, we were able to walk straight across the pond with the water never going past our chests, onion and potato sacks half full with clams, in one hand, and the other holding our bathing suits up, as we’d often stuff the pockets with other mud-gems such as conches, green-glass Coca-Cola bottles, and arrowheads.

These thoughts in mind, I strolled the shore looking at deer and coyote tracks in the sand. Picking up an occasional suspected arrowhead and skipping it into the blue-in-green water after it failed the quality control inspection. I was mad at myself for not having my digital camera in the car but managed to take several pictures of the pond, the shore, and what little wake there was. My younger sister and I have had many conversations about making enough money to be able to afford keeping the beach house around, in hopes that our kids might be able to commit similar experiences to memory. I would be lying if I told you that I don’t think about this nearly everyday.

Scary Teen Dating Movie

There I sat with scissors-
of all things,
thinking they wouldn't penetrate
my skin to the vein.
Not unlike that punk chick
in Empire Records
who shaved her head
and made an attempt at her wrist
using a pink Lady Bic.

Predictable,

Life is now scripted like that
the placement of a Counting Crows song
in a sex scene of Cruel Intentions.

Colorblind,

my wrist comes undone,
like the pants of those twenty-somethings
playing high school seniors.

Cold Feet, Courage, and Risk

I’m home in Rhode Island for the first time in six weeks. I suppose that amount of time isn’t too great compared to months away at school or years away in the military. Fortunately, I hope I will never experience the latter. As I sit and type, I’m drinking a glass of tap water which is quite delicious and refreshing compared to the tap water in New York. I’ve noticed a distinct taste in the ice cubes as well. Although my family is a mere fraction of Irish descent, the house is filled with the scent of corned beef, cabbage, and soda bread—not one of my favorite meals. But, after all, it is something that I will always associate with being at my parents’ house. The smell of the sheets on my own bed and the way they are tucked under the mattress in a way that only a mother can do without effort. In high school, especially on a cool almost spring day, I would purposely leave the windows open in my room to air out the stench of winter, smoky clothes, and my brother’s laundry which is, more often than not, strewn about the cold faded hardwood floor. More than that, for me, there is nothing more comfortable than getting into bed and under the sheets without socks on, wrestling with the sheets a little bit, and laying there with cold sheets on my feet. I know this isn't normal--but this is me, the real Jimmy.

Out in the kitchen, I can hear one of the black labs playing with a rawhide bone and rather than annoying it is somewhat soothing to know exactly the source that unique noise is coming from. The house is always noisy, whether it’s 5am or 11pm. There are sounds that I am so used to, even if they are, at times, bothersome.

Another few days will pass and I will head back to New York. It has been quite an interesting experience traveling back and forth for almost eight months, although I would never wish the circumstances of my extended vacation from full-time work on myself or anyone. Looking back over the past several months, I feel I wasted so much time applying for jobs, researching on the Internet, procrastinating, feeling the urge to clear the visited pages history, and meticulously organizing the folders and files on the Mac desktop. Not once did I just go to the beach, watch the surf, and write. Not once did I exercise in my basement gym, also called “the dungeon.” Although, I have spent countless hours going for walks, playing with Jack the seven pound wonder, and worrying myself to death about finding employment, I have managed to realize quite a bit about myself and the person I am trying to be.

I have managed to set up some blogs, including this one, for my poetry, random thoughts, ponderings, digressions, rants, and social commentary but I feel I have neglected this and other resources in all that time out of work. Perhaps, I am being too critical of myself. For the past few months, I have been trying see the positive side of things. A couple of weeks ago, I had yet another job interview in NYC. This time, it was for a position at an advertising agency. The interview, I felt, went fairly well and I was looking forward to hearing back from the company. Rather than taking the F or V uptown to Penn, I decided to walk, seeing that it was only 11 blocks or so. Naturally, I was thinking. And, as I tend to do, I was questioning what it is I really want out of life (which may or may not have influenced my writing the previous blog). Due to my decision to walk to the train station to catch a train back to Long Island, I managed to miss the train by 3 minutes. I thought to myself, no big deal, I will just get a coffee. Starbucks, yada yada yada, $4 later. Much better than my delicious, although overpriced, latte was the insightful quote printed on the recycled cardboard cup, “Failure's hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you're successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever.” This quote is from a book written by Po Bronson What Should I Do With My Life?. Of course, I didn’t know the title of the book till I went “home” to Google the quote and author. Although I did attempt purchasing this book at two stores, I have yet to buy and read the book. Nonetheless, I found it so intriguing and fitting to my current predicament. It turns out that this book is not incredibly old but pretty damn old; recent enough to be in print but old enough to not be available in stores. Although I have done some research regarding commentary on, and reviews of, the book, I feel the title of the book speaks volumes on its own.

What should I do with my life? What should anyone do with their life? Either way, why? What are your motivations? More importantly, what are my motivations and desires? Do my desires stand to count for anything anymore? Why do I torment myself with all of these questions and why all the time? Essentially, and quite matter-of-factly, we question things in an attempt to determine or understand things about ourselves and the choices we make, have made, and will make. As I mentioned, I looked into the book, without purchasing it. A section of the book I’ve become particularly interested in reading concerns “Courage and Risk.” Certainly, these two things are tied to one another in many obvious and not-so-obvious ways. To make some sense of the point I am trying to make, I wanted to share some lines from this section of the book.
“You can make decisions to pad your wallet. You can make decisions to maintain proper appearances. You can make decisions because they're safe or predictable. You can make decisions because it'll keep your parents off your back. You can make decisions simply to delay making harder decisions.”

In particular, and especially, when we are “young adults” (whatever that means) we are forced to make decisions e.g. work while in high school, get good grades, apply to colleges near home, apply to colleges far from home, choose a school, choose friends, choose a major, and choose a career? We are often asked to make decisions that are not necessarily well-informed or guided in any particular way. But once you graduate college, it is very much up to you. Now, I’m not just addressing this because I experienced a very long period of unemployment after receiving my Master’s and losing my job, but more so because Po Bronson wrote this book at an early age, previous to 25 years of age, I believe. This book is so interesting because Bronson is asking himself the same question as he asked the individuals he profiled for this book. “What should I do with my life?” Now, Bronson is a bestselling author and I would speculate that he was few doubts about what he has done with his life.

I have not achieved a great realization about myself because of my research on this book. (As I mentioned, I have intentions to, but have not yet read this book). Over the past few months, however, I have been writing two books. More so, I am writing two books because someone took a chance on me and someone saw that I had potential and the inherent ability necessary to perform such a task. Whether any of that is true, I am actually quite happy. Have I neglected writing what I want as a result? Yes. Although unemployed, I must admit that I am the happiest and most positive I have been in many years; perhaps, even prior to my undergraduate studies. I have not yet returned to “full-time” work or the “9 to 5 turned 8 to 7 grind,” and do not resent anyone for the situation I have had to face everyday for nearly eight months. Even if I find my “dream job,” whatever that may be, I feel I will always, in one way or another, be looking for something to say “I do…” Along with Bronson's words and other sources, I have realized that for once I am happy and, I feel, it’s because I feel I’ve not only found, but already knew, what I wanted to do with my life.

Delicious Strife

I ask my God daily as He’s
Testing me constantly
For what deeper purpose do I serve if not to survive through pain and disappointment?
Testing me, I know I’m not alone
For I have strife and trials for He wishes for me to continue to a better day
He tests me as I’m assigned tasks and expectations.

She tests me
As I count my blessings
I note my residing angel for she protects and inspires me
She tests me and pulls me into a reality otherwise hard to swallow
This, I’ve been given then
It is love, I find
Given to me to pass along, I gather.

They test me
With false hope, saying,
“Perhaps you’ll like the rain elsewhere,
For it never changes or calms.”
Far beyond the tingling sensation in delicious strife
We’ll find even heaven’s peace may not be as so desired.

040804

I lay awake as the full moon glows light on my face,
I’ve been here before, an almost all too familiar place.
So dark and curious the sky, blue-black entrapping the star,
Those midnight spotlights seem so distant so far.

I awake seems two hours slept
Before the sun rose I heard the lonely song,
Beckoning in my thoughts of promises left kept.
From the start I knew the source, a bird where his lyrics belong
Lacked I slept, for things must be reassured,
Reminding me of the things past endured.

The anxiety renews, as surely does the morning sun.
I listen to the sounds, as the bird becomes one with a choir,
Of all things I dream and have kept unsung,
I’m alone again for choral observers silence and retire.

Toenail Clippings and Bellybutton Lint

The dryer creates its pilly wool sweaters,
as the faulty zipper covers only
the part you don’t want zipped.
Not unlike the deodorant that stains your undershirt
rendering you a perspiring Smurf.
Flaky hair gel dried up looks like dandruff
on the shoulder of a thirteen hour day.
The sweat in your brown shoes smells of
the booze you drank last night
coming out to haunt your newly found sobriety.
It all tastes good in some peculiar way,
as you pick the lint from your bellybutton
and wonder how it gets there.
While the toenail stuck in your teeth
sadly only marks acquired flexibility.

Counterfeit

It’s been almost two years
but it seems like last month
although I don’t remember
that expensive week of partying
I knew you were all there.
Perhaps not afraid, as I was,
about what the world would
make of me.

It’s been quite a while
since Greg broke my leg,
JJ had optimism about parking,
Alison’s dad bought us drinks,
Billy borrowed the maroon shitbox
to take to the Gap,
that random guy started up his
tow truck and fixed Cesca’s car
at 3 in the morning,
Beth used the couch inappropriately
and likewise Fal in addition to the
floor, wall, poster, and garbage can.
But that was my fault
‘cause I locked the door.

Too many times
I’ve chosen to be passive
and not dwell, for once,
on what we all were,
what we once had,
and the naïve egotism
that ran through our veins
not knowing what would
happen after we crossed
that counterfeit stage.

But there you are
and here I am—
What to make of it
I’m not sure.
The least I can do is make
sure you all know
that I think about
every wasted morning
became afternoon slept-in
and thought maybe
I should’ve been awake,
slowed down and enjoyed
the life everyone else
was living.

What are you/we really working for?

When was the last time someone asked you where your drive comes from? What are your motivations? What makes you who you are when compared to everyone else? Do these things matter to you? What matters? What makes a difference in your life? My response is Me. Taking everything into consideration, the most rational response, as there are no definite answers to these types of questions, is Me. Despite everything I have experienced in life and everything that I have learned through K-12 and six years of "higher" education, I have come to the realization that none of it really matters unless you use it all to your advantage. Being unemployed for seven months, I have come to many realizations about myself, the world in which I live but am barely part, and the capitalistic system under which we are governed, live by, and die by. The reason I ask what it is that makes you who you are is because I am constantly searching; searching for something that will make some sense now and benefit me in the long run.

I have come to grips with ambition, motivations, nature vs. nurture, what my "higher" education has taught me, in addition to what the educational system has no taught me. It comes down to where I will be and how I will favor in years beyond the next decade. Have I not done what I was told, in terms of doing what is right, getting good grades, and being above average in everything that I do, including education? Where does any of this put me? What I am coming to realize more and more each day is that I must learn and function in such a way that I am ambivalent to the "normal" or "typical" way of doing things. In an ever-changing world and socioeconomic marketplace, I realize that it is not up to what your parents have taught you and told you do. Life, simplified, of course, is very much what you make of it. Some leave high school thinking they will join the armed forces to find camaraderie and some promise of upward mobility, a pension, excellent benefits, and an early retirement in inactive duty. Others pursue college and university-level studies, hoping to join the masses in receiving a similar package to what the military offers--stability, and the opportunity to grow.

As time passes, however, no matter what your profession is, and no matter how long you did, or did not, go to school for, individuals are no longer "safe" in their plans. As not to delve completely into the state of our economic situation, I foresee that many will anticipate, acknowledge, should welcome, and, furthermore, realize that change needs to take place. To echo Gandhi, perhaps people are awakening to the realization that we must first "Be the change [we] want to see in the world." As I see it, as do many others, we must realize this in our own ways through the trials and tribulations we experience on our own course or path to...what, really? What are we all working for? Sure, survival, to make a paycheck, to pay our bills, to contribute to our slumping and barely nonexistent 401Ks, to pay for those who, in some way or another, cannot provide enough for themselves. But, not matter the situation, profession, passion, or pursuit, we are working for money. Think about all of these things, as, perhaps, many of us never have before.

As I've recently been involved in writing books on success and how to make money, I am, more and more, thinking about all of these elements. We cannot escape capitalism; and, I feel, we must embrace it. I could continue typing with many thoughts on these elements which play an integral role, in not only our daily lives, but also the system we are a part and love, in some ways, yet are slaves to.

Even as a "cafeteria Catholic," I have always thought of things in terms of Marxism. Some of you, who may be more familiar with philosophy and literary theory, perhaps would label this way of thinking as "New Marxism." Perhaps, I realize and acknowledge all of the above, but that doesn't necessarily mean I, or we, have to accept it. Capitalism, as I see it, is not going anywhere anytime soon. However, the way we contribute to, think about, and counteract with this manmade construct should be in a manner that is well-informed and calculated. No matter your current education level, profession, or sought-after education level and professional field, we must all ask ourselves "What am I really working for?"

More to come...

I didn't hit the Jackpot

As you may, or may not, know, the Mega Millions lottery jackpot was up to $212 Million for last night's drawing. In Rhode Island, where I'm originally from, we don't have the Mega Millions but we do have Powerball. Yes, Powerball, as in the lottery talked about and sought after by the cast of Friends one season--they had to drive to Connecticut, I believe, to buy tickets. Anyhow, I never really buy tickets. In fact, I will typically only buy one ticket for $1 if the jackpot is over, say, $50M. Not that my chances improve but I figure that somehow my $1 is more worth it. Well, I've been in New York on and off for several months now with no Powerball. Although, I only throw my money way, and very little at one time, every so often, I actually missed playing Powerball now and then.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've purchased a ticket for the Tuesday and Friday drawings. I was particularly enthralled to buy two tickets, yes only 2, for last night's drawing because the jackpot was so high. Needless to say, I did hit the jackpot, I didn't win a quarter million, one hundred thousand, a few hundred, or even my $2 back. Not winning is not necessarily my problem because, honestly, I think the chances of winning are about 1 in 300 million, or something like that. Since I have been out of full-time work for such a long time, I often have trouble sleeping. More often than not, and especially for someone in my situation, money has certainly been something that is constantly on my mind. Last night, in particular, perhaps due to my stubborn, romanticized mind, I fell in-and-out of sleep thinking I had actually won the lottery.

I began to think about who I would call first and couldn't decide. Since I've always been so conscious about money, saving money, and the potential for growth, I looked through my cell phone contacts to find my grandfather's broker/financial advisor, who I've spoke with twice in my lifetime, I believe. Not that he would be the first call, but he would certainly be on the list. Just imagine winning. It would be insane. Even in my altered cognitive state, I couldn't even make up my mind about who to call. I began to think about telling my mother she didn't have to work insane hours as a nurse anymore. I could pay for my younger sister's graduate school and eliminate my older sister's and younger brother's school debt. I could buy my parents a house away from the town that has so many bad memories. I could provide a life for my parents comfortable enough for my grandparents to not worry about my mother. I singlehandedly could change the course of the lives of people around me, and not just my family.

I would give my girlfriend's mother some money for letting me stay at her house and come and go for the past six months. My girlfriend, Beth, and I would be off to the "Miracle Mile" to have a custom engagement ring made at Tiffany's. I would do everything and anything I could to make the people around me happy. Happiness doesn't come with money, believe me I know. It can come and it can go just as easily but it doesn't make you happy. Having money, however, can eliminate the worry that comes with financial hardship and woes. Thinking ahead, even in a hypothetical situation, as I tend to do, I would foresee that money, especially a large amount of money, would bring additional worries.

With all the negatives put aside, I think I would forge ahead, keep looking for an ideal "dream job" and keep my plans the same--get a job in a creative field that would make me happy, invest in new media and entertainment ventures, start a publishing company, etc. I'm not, however, trying to say that I wouldn't change the car I drive. Although, my 2002 Prizm has been pretty reliable and has taken me many places, it would certainly have to go.

Cheers!

Batman cereal, Flintstone Vitamins, and other aversions

What ever happened to Batman cereal? It had a very distinct and, for me, memorable taste, smell, weird yellow coloring. In fact, I believe these are the reasons behind me remembering some random cereal I ate, maybe a few times at most, some 15 years ago. Do you remember Batman cereal, with those little yellow Batman symbols? Cereal, like many things tied to youth and memory, is a funny thing, especially when you get into a discussion about all the "not good for you or your kids" cereals. We all know that these cereals are marketed to children, a target audience for who cavities and sugar intake should already be a concern. That, however, it not at all the point of this post. I digress and it's a wonderful thing. The tangent is one of the many elements of class lectures and discussions which got me through six years of college. And, frankly, who am I to leave the tangent method of discourse to university professors, medical professionals, lawyers, etc.

The more I write, be it poetry, non-fiction, blogs, etc, the more I realize that my memory, as well who I am, is very much tied to my childhood experiences--scents, smells, tastes. Which sense is strongest? Certainly, there are taste aversions in which we simultaneously have something unique and distinct tempt our taste buds into taking us on a trip down a, perhaps, not-so-pleasant memory lane. Vinegar and mayonnaise are two that totally disgust me here. Perhaps it is the talk about drinking vinegar as a cure for colds and other types of home remedies, or it very well could be those bottles of Heinz Malt Vinegar found on the tables of many sports bars, delis, and other eateries. I cannot stand it being near me or even on my side of the table for all that matter. Mayonnaise, mayo, or, whatever you want to call it has an especially disgusting place in my memory. Even to this day, my grandmother and mother use mayonnaise to rub into the finishes of a scratches piece of antique furniture. I have very distinct memories of the two of them walking around the living and dining room at my grandparent's house with a jar of mayonnaise. Plain and simple, an open jar of mayonnaise, mayo on a knife in the sink, mayo on a sandwich, on a spoon, anywhere, grosses me out.

There are of course interesting smells like, for example, Flintstone vitamins. Now I know someone remembers the smell of these chewable treats! I do not remember protesting to take my Flintstone vitamin even once as a kid. I don't so much remember the taste of these chewable Freds, Barneys, and Dinos, but I do remember the smell of the vitamin itself. I suppose the scent increased in strength with the childproof tops sealing the goodness inside. Which is ironic, in a way, because you want your children to take their vitamins yet they are packaged in such a way that you have to open the containers of them. Anyhow, the smell of these vitamins is an everyday experience for me in such a weird way. I have managed to find a deodorant, Old Spice Pure Sport, and a body wash, of the same scent, to smell exactly like the Flintstone vitamins. Please, if you do remember the smell of these vitamins you must take yourself to CVS, Target, etc. to smell this scent. It is very much the same. The vitamins on the other hand can still be found on store shelves, and yes, I did look for them one day out of curiosity. On the contrary, the smell of sycamore trees is repulsive. You walk outside and it's mid-June, kind of hot outside and the humidity hits you in the face. But if you grew up, and or live, in New England and the Northeast states, chances are you have experienced the smell of the "sick-a-more" tree. I'm sure the name of the tree is no coincidence. Seriously, I don't think I could point you out a tree in a park or on a random street that is a sycamore tree. But I would guarantee to you that I would be able to point out a vicinity based on the smell. Seriously, it smelled like someone sneezed. And, yes, sneezes have smells too. If you are one of those unfortunate few who have experienced the smell of a sneeze (another person's sneeze) in your travels or daily excursions, I sincerely apologize because that is a raunchy smell in itself!

And, then there are sounds. This could include voices, music, song lyrics, beats, the sound of cleats on a metal stadium bleacher, the bounce of a basketball, a car horn, that "awhooogaaa" noise, a buzzer at a sporting event, a megaphone, a burp. All of these things we have stored in our wonderful brains. But if you look into your mind hard enough, you might just be able to tie each one of these sounds, and many more, to specific instances or experiences. That, is what I love doing. And for centuries people have had discourse over this phenomenon of aversions. It is our mind's way of tying pieces together. I personally feel that I am fortunate to have within my a curiosity to seek out the reasons for things. As someone who writes, and at least, thinks that he is creative, I find myself attributing to inanimate and, perhaps otherwise, insignificant things, significance. I just thought I would share.

Cheers!

On Hedgerow Drive

I wonder if the birds came today.
Filled their bath last night after work
and the feeder by the kitchen window
early this morning.
I tend not to open the garage doors
because it startles them.
Though they leave gifts of color
on my car when it’s left in the driveway.
The spring will come soon
and I’ll wake them on weekdays—
stretching, chest forward, arms back,
like the birds in the front garden.
While I have the luxury to shower or bathe,
they rely on me for fresh water.
They test the water with their toes
as clichéd cartoon humans do.
I’m sure the birds were here today,
although I didn’t find them there
by the blue and purple slate walkway
or anywhere around this place
that is not theirs nor quite my own.
In thirty years time,
the bank tells me this will all be mine.
But I’d rather have no responsibility
and come and go on a summer breeze
with the knowledge
that I can always stop down
and test the water.

Piece by Piece

Here we are in the failing nation
where we are too proud to pay rent
and not upper-middle enough to pay our way.
So we mortgage our lives
piece by insignificant piece:
a car, a purse, clothing, and jewelry,
a two hundred dollar wallet
with not enough cash carried inside
to purchase movie tickets, a tank of gas,
a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread.
Hope comes in rumors of a tax refund
to purchase instead of paying down
maxed out credit cards or
the principal of your mortgage.
Do what they tell you—
it’s good for the economy.
Short sell your house or they’ll foreclose.
You can always file for bankruptcy
and have a shot at it all over again
in ten years time your coveted credit
will bounce back like the market.
At least that’s what they tell us.

Ullage

I can only hope for smooth sailing
when I leave you behind in New York
with the new puppy
and the hustle and bustle
of superficial competition.
Although it never is easy to leave,
once I hit Grand Central Parkway
there’s no turning back—
at least not this Sunday night.
It becomes hard to keep the car steady
when the wind blows side to side
one hand on the wheel
the other changing songs on the iPod,
adjusting the volume and heat controls
while also readily available
to answer the phone in my lap—
I keep it on vibrate
so I can feel you calling me.
Another week ends, another week a drone,
in trance of anticipation for the next time
we can play family again.
Our hectic parade,
a procession of short visits,
New York this weekend;
Providence the next,
as we continue our short visits
to appease our hearts and our minds.
This mutual philanthropy—
an effort to compensate for lost time
and those Mondays to Fridays
where we long for days
closer together
and more mundane.

The House on Saltaire

Tonight, like so many nights,
Cooush, I hear the sound,
the splash of the sea.
Salty transparent like the sweat
that drips from my brow to lips.
“Kiss me, I’m not crying,” I call out.
No answers except the wind
briskly blowing across the bay.
I imagine you would be as tearful as me,
when the smell of untraveled places
enters your nostrils
by means of the sunset wind.
It’s not painful or harsh like low tide,
I think, wiping my wind-induced tears,
looking out towards Block Island and the Sound.
“You’re not far from there, a few miles or so
from point to point,”
but the Whaler will not take me that far—
not against the waves of a southeastern wind.
Tonight, like so many nights,
I’m not there,
I cannot be.

Clubhouse

Please let me in the clubhouse.
I have candy, dirty jokes and
magazines of filth.
I may not help your grade point average
but I promise to cause it no detriment.
I can help with geometry and algebra,
or maybe help you with your piggy bank.

I wear cool clothes and don’t do what I’m told
all the time.
But I won’t wear your letters shamefully
in public or at the local mall.
I’m different, I know,
but I don’t care about the other clubs.
They’ve always been too willing to let me be a part.

I can lend you secrets of the world you wonder
yet only write about.
Why watch movies in avid research?
I can tell you who she is, or who they are,
I can tell you what it feels like
and the year of the car her father drives.
I turn to new experiences
instead of turning the page
of another’s recollection.

Please let me in the clubhouse
and we can play your games.
I’d like to know what’s so special
that I cannot come in.
I doubt it’s something I haven’t
pondered in anxiety, persona, or voice,
nor dreamed a wet dream’s nightmare
about or viewed in some porno scene.
All I can offer is perhaps what you don’t want.
Or maybe it is that you’ve wanted it for so long
you’ve all given up.
But maybe I hit my social prime in high school.

I just bought another blazer
I’m not sure if it’s your style or mine.
I hope it’s not too cool, I hope it’s not too dull.
I cannot change the way I look, or the way I talk,
or my desire to become a member
of the only club that I wanted to be part of
that wouldn’t let me in.

Syrup (Draft)

It's been a long time
since I built a fort,
climbed a tree,
jumped fearlessly on a sled
down a rocky, half snow-covered hill.
I can't remember the last time
I rode a bike
down to the "One Stop"
to buy penny candy
with quarters stolen from my father's dresser.
I don't miss the scraped knees
and the way the pebbled pavement made
indents in my skin--
those would bleed differently than a
fall from rollerblading--
a chunk of skinned something,
"Look at that. Is that skin?"

It's been a long time
since I stabbed jellyfish with piece of driftwood
found on the beach.
I bashfully wore a t-shirt
while riding waves at the beach,--
soaked, sticky, and wet with salty sea water--
I exit the wake, bellybutton showing through my shirt,
the unique thrill of the suction sound
as I modestly peeled the shirt away
from my husky, prepubescent belly.

After, we made mud pies,
slapping them with water
till they became flat like pancakes
with dead jellies as the syrup.

Recent events, well, kind of.

I'm in no way condoning a man hitting a woman, ever, but I would like to talk about it. People may surprised to learn that greats such as Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra were arrested and charged with similar offenses. Frankly, unless a woman is about to stab me with a knife or shoot a member of my family, I couldn't even imagine raising a hand to a woman. In fact, even in the knife and gun instances, I would feel terribly guilty. Anyhow, I really don't want Chris Brown to bounce back from the situation he has gotten himself into. Oftentimes, many celebrities get special treatment in the form of acquittal by virtue of the dollar, reduced sentences, bizarre and lame community service projects, white-collar jails, and 24 hour sentences--really?!

It's insane the way pop culture has adversely shaped society in the chance of rules, in some instances, that your average citizen must abide by. Since it is the entertainment industry, perhaps society gets a sweeter revenge of sorts because these fools repeatedly do asinine things. OJ for example--anyone dumb enough to hold up a collectibles dealer in a casino should not only be caught and thrown in jail but be forced to watch silly, children's programs like in Addams Family Values. Talk about stupid. In all the many hours OJ Simpson sits around, you're telling me he hasn't watched the various programs and movies which show people winning a visit to the infamous back rooms of Las Vegas casinos after being caught counting cameras, stealing chips, etc. Yes, OJ, there are a lot of cameras in multibillion dollar casinos.

But, I think, Chris Brown takes the cake. High profile, young, successful. On his way with Rihanna to becoming the next Jay-Z and Beyonce. How could he possibly think it would be okay? How could he possibly think he could get away with assaulting your celebrity girlfriend in a car rented out to you. Did I also mention that paparazzi follow them around like dogs chasing the mailman (insert another simile if you're more comfortable, I'm trying to make a point). Dozens of radio stations are boycotting his music, burning his CDs, throwing away t-shirts, etc. We will, and very well should, remember Chris Brown as a weak individual who beat on a woman. If Rihanna is stupid enough to take him back, which sadly and unfortunately happens often in abusive relationships, she will only have herself to blame as the whole world rolls their eyes yet again.

On another note, it's disgusting that a network (MTV) would air a show produced to reduce a sentence of a repeat offender of possessing and illegally owning a closet full of weapons. Without getting too political, Bush and the GOP launched a multi-billion 'war' against multiple countries to supposedly rid them of "weapons of mass destruction." Here, in the United States, however, it's okay to have an adult items store next to a children's daycare, liquor stores next to high school recreational playing fields, and gun stores next to elementary schools (Call me on this and I will list specific examples). Whatever the case may be, our society is basically saying that it's okay that a rapper, like T.I., can have multiple assault riffles and other illegal automatic weapons. If you make a reality show, as if we didn't have enough already, displaying your supposed remorse and willingness to help others, in an attempt to help people who will end up dead or in the correctional system anyhow.

Again, it is crazy the ways in which popular culture has altered our society. We certainly can't live without social freedoms, freedom of expression, and having the right to explore new media such as this blogging platform. Popular culture, of course, should be a representation of the world in which we live. However, what more are we willing to sacrifice in terms of morals and ethical values. It is a double-edged sword, I suppose. Maybe, in 30 years, our kids will have no idea that Chris Brown brutally assaulted Rihanna. After all, many people have forgotten about good old Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.

Anthony Bourdain has got the life

(Note: Since I've completely neglected this blog, and would like to monetize this blog, I've consolidated. Hopefully, I will be writing about food and restaurants, in addition to the things I already write about).

Like him or not folks, you have to admit that traveling around the world to eat and drink in a wide range of restaurants and lounges is quite appealing. I highly doubt I'm the only one who thinks that way. Many people are of the persuasion, "eat to live, not live to eat." Well, I wouldn't say I exactly fall asleep hungry and wake up famished, but then again, most Americans don't. I do, however, think about food all the time, plan meals way ahead of time, get Chinese take-out more than I should, and scope out menus to restaurants and bars in states where I've yet to travel. I get excited about food but I am definitely the type of person who is more excited about eating food than making it. I am all about savory foods and not so much the sweets, although cheesecake (New York Style opposed to Italian) is amazing. But then again, there's cheese in it, therefore, savory again.

I've gotten ahead of myself. I wanted to make this first post to tell you that I will be writing, from time-to-time, about different restaurants, lounges, and bars I want to go to, have been to, and forget I've ever been. Hopefully, these experiences will be on the recommendation side instead of run and hide. I have several places in mind, one of which I went to this past Saturday night on Long Island, which I will be writing about in the near future.

Cheers!

Nothing too exciting...yet

So, this will be my blog where I will try to mind my Ps and Qs when talking about all the idiocy we find 1) On the radio--where they actually still play music between commercials for debt consolidation, sexual enhancement products, and marijuana studies for woman ages 13-25 who aren’t pregnant. 2) In the wonderful world of reality television—where, like Joel McHale, I cannot stand what I’m watching yet I watch it to criticize the programming, make fun of the often type-casted hot messes appearing on the shows, and yes, probably to feel better about myself, all while boosting the ratings of the very shows I watch to scorn and despise that they’re actually on television 3) the Internet and other lovely media that allow me to do what I’m doing at this very moment in time.

Certainly, I will rant and rave about other things. And while I’m debating a better title for this blog, as I’m quite sure something more interesting will come to mind, I’m thinking of many other things I have wanted to, can, and will talk about.

Cheers!

Sedation Dentistry

Take a Xanax,
a couple of milligrams—
There you are—
it will help you
relax.
Fall,
while your eyelids
flutter.
I’ll put you under.
Personally,
I like the nitrous effect:
laugh, then sleep,
while I poke and prod.
My hands find their way,
placing my implements aside.
Drift fingertips
up your skirt.
Need a little Astroglide—
Vaseline will smell too obvious.
After all,
this is for my pleasure
at your expense.

Sage Drive

A candle burns with its flicker and flame
in my mother-in-law’s suburban living room
a little too close to a Raggedy Andy doll
rested at the foot of an antique lamp
complimented in color by its shade.
The dim room shades a polaroid,
out of place and without frame,
of the Virgin Mary’s reflection
in some glass office building in Florida,
I am told.
A Boyd’s Bear is there as well
propped in a seated position—
a thought of but not sought after collectible
I am sure—
placed among knickknacks and nothings
inside this cramped three-bed, two-bath
with a finished basement on Sage Drive.
They park their cars against the grain here
with no threat of a parking ticket, tow,
or timed meter running out.
A phone rings, it’s Diane,
the neighborhood gossip queen,
second marriage, stay-at-home mother of three,
spreading rumors of a break in on Brierbrook Avenue,
two streets away.
“Lock your doors,” she says,
“for the rest of the week anyhow.”

Neighbors

There was always a better chance of
hearing an argument than seeing
a light shine from the house
across the street.

Oftentimes there were angry voices
yelling about
money,
the car payments,
the cesspool,
the mortgage,
the pitbull
chewing something up,
again.

It was always later in the day
that I would see her—
her car, rather—
and the garage door opening
and her silver car entering
the darkness that possessed
that house.

At various times of the day
I’d see his white van,
a mobile advertisement
for Bill’s Cleaning Company,
parked in the drive,
there in the morning
and there at night.

I hope they went somewhere bright
when they actually did leave;
because for all the money I heard about,
one of them should have seen some light.

What's Left

Took a drive around the neighborhood,
I think it was Thursday.
I found no more milk containers on stoops,
no newspapers in driveways,
but foundations of homes
and a broken alabaster lion—
fragments of Greenlawn Avenue
a couple of streets away.

Every time I drive around
a dozen more houses are gone.
A year’s time will pass
and the rest will be bought out,
bulldozed over,
and left to decay and collect graffiti
and idle brown-bag passersby—
a neighborhood full of ruffians
that drift around Winslow Park
where kids used to ride their bikes
and recreational leagues prized the fields
as location for softball and soccer.

I suppose the Airport will take
my street, my house,
Jessica’s, and Dustin’s,
and soon,
the whole neighborhood.

Some would say
it’s probably for the better—
despite the noise, the jet fuel pollutants,
and increased traffic.
But I’ve lived here longer than anywhere else—
an eighth of a mile
from that runway.

Without

I go out from time to time
knowing that I will not see you
leaned at the bar,
browsing songs on the jukebox,
or outside having a smoke
and simple conversations.
Thanks to mobile phones
I may hear from you—
God-willing there is good service—
as if satellites play a significant role
in the night’s direction.

I visit the men’s room to have a chat
and with no one around,
I attempt to rationalize with my reflection
in the mirror in front of the urinals.
I realize it all becomes useless—
my dry-cleaned button-downs,
my matching brown shoes and belt,
even that more-white-than-blue striped
J-Crew shirt you bought me.

You know the one:
“It’s supposed to be wrinkled.”
Yes, that one.
I like it a lot by the way.

But it’s wasted,
unnecessary,
like each spray of Burberry cologne.
Although I love the fragrance,
it is worthless as my Pure Sport deodorant,
and my crew-neck t-shirts
that hug my body
and appear pressed
when I’m without you.

Under the Stairs

I pass the chemical plant
by the trestle on the way home
and the smell of sulfur in the air
brings me to the back door
of the house on Boulder View Drive.
Usually barricaded by a lawn mower,
tools, and cases of silver cans
with bold black lettering: B-E-E-R—
you know, the old ones with the
pullback tabs.
Four wooden stairs out to the backyard
we had a fort there,
under the stairs.
We would play with matches,
hoard discoveries like old Playboys—
that the perv at the card shop sold us—
polished rocks, supposed arrowheads,
candy, rubber snakes, and fake dog shit.
Our prized possessions were daggers
that we made with a bike handlebar grip
and a stick sharpened to a dull point
on the cement of our blacktop
double-driveway, or on one of the large rocks
that made our street a dead end.
At school nearby we were told that
Indians used them as drums,
but now under the stairs, at age nine,
they separated the neighborhoods
and created rival soccer teams.
We weren’t supposed to go over there
or to let anyone in
so we stayed away and were told not
to talk to strangers even though
we knew their kids.
Ryan was nice enough, even though
he lived on the other side of the rocks,
even though he had to take a different bus
to get to school.
We should have let him in.
Maybe then the man at the card shop
wouldn’t have got to him.

Hyannis, MA

I was always willing to play the cruel older brother
chasing you—two chubby kids running on the pavement,
our feet black-bottomed and blistered
from never wearing sandals.
Remember the peanut butter & jelly sandwiches
we had on the way out to the Cape—
packaged in tinfoil, teeter-tottering on the edge
of the second row seat,
that fell victim to the musty sand-covered floor mats
of the family caravan.
It was your fault that I forgot my glasses—
blue, circular lenses, like the ones John Lennon wore;
at least that’s what the Phishhead cashier at that store
in Provincetown said.
I left them in the side compartment of the backseat
where you kept your multicolored bouncy balls
that we got from the flea market
where we stole those novelty pop fireworks
you throw at the ground.
Maybe you would remember the rusty Chock Full O’Nuts can
that we peed in so we didn’t have to stop along the way.
I know, well, you’ve got to remember when the cops pulled us over—
Dad was pissed.
That stupid Dunkin Donuts box we tore apart and threw out the window.
Perhaps we should’ve thrown the donuts out instead.
I bet you do remember that beach with the huge wooden staircase
built right into the dunes.
Mom and Dad were proud of themselves having climbed it up and down;
they always were overweight.
I’m sorry, although at the time it was funny,
my wet sandy towel, the crack on your lower back,
the people whose necks snapped to look
at the awkward chubbiness
of our family vacation.

Harold and the Purple Crayon

I look around my cubicle,
gray ceiling and manila phone.
I curse the white sterile walls.
Why can’t I draw on them
a purple door that I remember so vividly?
Or fill the electrical socket with green Play-Doh—
the patchwork of a child, high in sodium, yum.
To use snots as weapons:
some, when rolled in a ball,
release from your finger while others remain stuck.
Likewise dead-or-live bugs in the kitchen
or the mysterious scraps of toilet paper
you find in the men’s room
serve as ammo to throw
at the new girl in accounting.
To make music with your armpits,
mimicking farts
with lips to closed hands.

Hi-C and Calamine Lotion

It was on a Monday I sat,
late for work, in a pediatrician’s office,
waiting for my immunization records.
How awkward to sit with mothers and children,
sick and crying, with wet diapers,
waiting for the prognosis of the latest
sandbox plague.
I should have made an appointment
or had the doctor fax them.
But there I sat, watching sick school children
play Pokemon or whichever non-educational craze
swept their elementary schools this week.
One child stood alone.
I watched him play with a plastic multicolored abacus.
His mother hands him a juicebox,
green and yellow like Slimer from Ghostbusters.
Although it appeared a gallon in his hands,
he took control, wrestling the wrapper off
the red straw.
How innocent he is, not knowing that straw
will earn him detention in later years
when he learns the arts of spitballs.
He came toward me and I asked if he could do a tumblesault.
But he bashfully returned to the leg of his mother,
his perch to sit and wonder, perhaps,
why he cannot talk to strangers, or perhaps,
how the green elephant on the wallpaper
got chickenpox.

Boston Whaler Blues

Can’t we just go fishing?
Take that drive down Route 1
with Allie’s Donuts on the way—
glazed crullers and coffee milk.
The smell of our old wood paneled
caravan uniformed in once tan interior,
carefully littered with beach sand
and remnants of youth and wet dog.
It won’t take long once we get to the cottage:
a five gallon bucket with a box of frozen squid,
the green tackle box filled with rusty hooks,
steel leaders, four ounce sinkers and
expensive lures we’ve never used.

Can’t we just go fishing?
Let’s get farmer tans and just drift
like the time we lost the propeller
and had to get towed to shore by a jet ski.
You and me on the Whaler,
our lines in the water, talking
like fathers and sons once did.
Perhaps the fish below are
immersed in the same debate:
the son wanting to leave home
to chase the bait;
the father weary,
well aware of the hooks.

You used to take a cooler of beer
that we could’ve gotten in trouble for
because I was underage.
Now, you can’t have booze on a boat anymore.
It figures that now that I can drink by age
we cannot drink on the water.
But maybe that’s why you won’t go fishing.

Indian Rock Farm Road

An aged birdbath serves as an eerie reflection
of its once white color,
reminded by the flakes and chips of paint
strewn about the unkempt lawn,
as it splits the symmetry of the backyard.
The two paddleboats overturned,
tarpaulin-adorned,
adjacent to the Sunfish in their resting places
of off-season months.

The old wooden swing there between the trees
creates a shadowed hideout when the sun is high.
How it caused turmoil among siblings and cousins—
“Open Sesame,” some could enter.
“To the dungeon,” others could not.
The chains that supported the swing
cost Mark the tip of his youth
and backyard football stardom.
“Better a finger than his life,” Aunty Laurel said.
Severed, it dangled from the chain,
forever tainted like the thick rope
that hung loosely from the big oak tree.

There, up on the hill,
an old couple used to summer there.
They were always “discontent with their marriage.”
That’s what our parents told us.
But we knew something happened.
We were told to stay away from that tree,
because of its story and all.

Warwick Public

As I look up at the ceiling,
lights suspended, bulbous,
looking like breasts,
I think of the asbestos-ridden
drop-in tiles of my elementary school.
Lost on a school trip,
I panic and scan the stacks,
nine years old again,
dreading another encounter
with the drunkard janitor
whose ramblings escaped the
surgical mask he wore.
Now, fifteen years later,
I think he may fear bird flu,
or contracting HIV from the junkie
in the bathroom
dishing out blowjobs for a buck.
I’d like to think he actually read
those books whose pages he turned
so tenaciously with latex-gloved hands.
Maybe he actually knew who Whitman was
and that he liked the cock
and the idea that Shakespeare’s sonnets
were written for a teenage boy—
this library literally excites him.
And here I sit and wonder
what drove this old man to madness.
Perhaps, we are alike,
and wonder if Whitman would care to know
that his leaves are paperbacked and dusty
on the bottom shelf.

Bad Breath and Audacity

I saw a lunch aide from my elementary school
at the local pharmacy the other night.
We used to call her thunderthighs
in the yard at recess.
But that night, I was able to pass by her
to get my toiletries.
Surely I could’ve chosen another aisle.

She still has oversized glasses
as uncool in ’93 as they are now.
Her body is seamless,
having no defined hips, stomach,
ass, nor breasts; just a protruding
bulge of sedentary lifestyle.
She wasn’t as large as I recalled—
it’s been over a decade since
I saw her last.

I was ahead of her in line as I
realized there were some
spearmints to the left of me.
I stepped out of line.
I’ll admit I’ve called others out
for doing so,
But I stepped right back into line,
still ahead of old thunderthighs.
I bought my things and was on my way.

Out to the car now,
I turn the key with my foot on gas
and caught myself looking
in the mirror,
distracted.
She stepped in front
of my car.

Please and Thank You

I pretended not to make eye contact
with either of you at the bar.
It was nice to finally meet him face-to-face,
isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?
You introduced us,
but I was fine not saying hello.
He and I had no genuine embrace,
no friendly handshake, conversation,
nor laughs, as if we were meant
to be friends.
But I knew his face and name already
from dance pictures hanging near your bed
in your dorm room—
I felt he was watching me when I used to
come on your bare breasts.
I reminded him that I knew who he was
when I kissed you on the cheek, goodbye.
I shook his hand and another time it happened:
I’m just some nice guy you knew from undergrad
that he has conveniently never heard about.
I’d almost rather that he knew
that I fucked you
five years ago.

Thursday, Post Road

A path cleared in the middle
of a two-way street.
Cars pulled over on each side,
forced to follow suit and stop,
I looked to the left and to the right.
There were no children
crossing with teacher,
nor was there a pregnant woman
with toddler at her side,
not even a boy scout helping
a geriatric struggling with groceries
trying to cross.
Just an obese lady
riding a bike nearly in the middle
of Post Road, listening to her iPod.
I began to feel bad for the bike seat
but then I heard the screeching siren
of the fire truck
that ran her over.

Olneyville Square

He stands in the August heat,
bearded with clothes and a heavy coat,
transferring change from a coffee cup
into his pants pocket.
Around his neck, a cardboard sign
made from a pizza box
and a nylon cord
from a bundle of newspapers
reads “I NEED CHANGE,”
in black marker.
Earlier in the morning,
I saw him reading the paper,
sitting atop the stack from which it came,
as I waited for the pharmacy to open.
I followed him curiously to the stationary aisle
where I saw him shove a Sharpie into his pocket
so quickly, as not to be seen,
that it ripped its seam.
Hours later, he paces frantically
looking through his pockets
to quiet his grumbling stomach
or the voices inside his head,
only to find a hole.

"I'm Catholic"

She had dyed black hair;
black surrounded the white
polka dots on her oversized
vinyl purse.

Alone she stood, while others
sat, leaned on, and knelt below
the church pews.
Her pale calf trumped her thin ankle
as it disappeared into a silver dance flat
leaving no clue as to what color her toenail
polish was on Good Friday.

Supposedly devout male parishioners
collected offerings—
their grandchildren play basketball
in CYO recreation.
Members of the congregation softly placed
coins in the velvet covered baskets;
the more they give, the more they care.
Not to be found out as cheapo or sinner,
others offer the kind that folds.

Lines formed and I was told we were
to go “venerate the crucifix,”
and myself ignorant of where to kiss,
in a hurry was humbled to kiss his feet.

Afterwards, I looked to find the girl in black—
like me, younger, out of place,
perhaps to joke about our cluelessness
or maybe a vain inquiry on how many germs
she thought were on that wooden whatchamacallit.

House on Brightside Court

Oldest child, last one home,
I locked the door,
turned out the front light
that brightens our three-step stoop
and reaches and reveals
the cracking concrete and decay
of the driveway.

Little Alyssa wanted some water
before bed,
so I turned to the fridge—
a week old, half-eaten rotisserie chicken,
fat gelled over, better off in the freezer.
There’s plenty of ice when you’re not here
and I don’t have to hear Mom bitch about
you chewing it, the sound of your frustrations.
I turned off the maker this morning, good.

I went out to dinner again
‘cause you weren’t around
to do whatever it is that you do
since Mom works seventy hours.
I bought sugar today—
you know how she loves her coffee.
I set the automatic brewer
for quarter of five in the morning.
I hope that’s early enough for her
to fill her cup
before another twelve hour day
to come home to TV and your snoring—
morning comes quickly, sometimes four hours.
She’ll iron her scrubs and spray perfume
to extinguish the decay
that surrounds
this household
gone astray.

Yard Debris Only

My hands rub against the bamboo rake,
forming piles and blisters,
while wind-chapped skin and
a hangnail bitten too far down
draw blood.
The smell of a dampened October afternoon
averts me to childhood and being hit
with a soccer ball in my venous chubby thigh.
While the chilled breeze of early November
reminds me to leave the window open
and not wear socks to bed
so I may enjoy the cold sheets.
I wonder about the green sweatshirt
I used to wear as a young boy
and why I chose to chew holes in the sleeves
to stick my thumbs through.
Holes larger than one left by a rusty nail
in just the right spot
so it disables wear for occasions
outside yard work.
I watch the leaves fall in peanut brittle colors
slow motion to the lawn.
The crumbling of dried leaves
under fast moving cars on Main Avenue
remind me of how quickly the workweek will pass.
And I will be here another weekend
because Mr. Burnstein is too lazy a neighbor
to care about the leaves being blown
from his yard to mine.

Night Train

It’s not often that I ride the train
into Manhattan by myself.
Although the dulled blue and red seats,
worn by time and its travelers,
provide comfort,
sinking with a familiar sound
of air escaping through any holes
or unstitched seams.
I look around at the train’s inhabitants—
good thing we are all headed to the same city,
for the running lights above
take their turn to shine.
The posters are run down like dated drapes
from your great-grandmother’s living room.
This one here is for Mama Mia on Broadway,
from two summers ago.
The luggage racks are no more than twisted metal.
The sways of the train take me side-to-side,
shake me back to the sixth grade
and the school bus which shook
like a crackerjack box on wheels
tossed along the road like the
magazines, coffee cups, and flyers left behind
on the floor of this train.
And I will spend the rest of the ride
trying to avoid the half eaten donut
the man next to me has placed between us
on the seat after pronouncing it “stale.”
A pen rolls to my feet.
It doesn’t write, it scratches.
Screech, the train brakes
and the yellow light above the door flashes
as I hear the conductor’s voice,
“Penn Station.”

City Squirrels

As a cab nearly runs over a squirrel
in the street near Central Park,
I notice all the clusters of leaves
strategically placed in the tree branches
with the diligence of survival.
We too scurry around the city
from place to place—
Penn, maybe Grand Central,
to the subway and through the streets
to find a small Italian place on 57th.
We take a cab to cheat time
to our reservations before the show
and pass a homeless man
building his nest for the night.
While we spoil ourselves,
free to come and go
from the island to the city—
he rushes to find and collect
leaves, cardboard boxes, and plastic bags,
forced to create refuge from refuse
while we talk over dinner
about design places for our second home.
Blocks away and hours earlier,
the beats and bulls waved papers frenetically—
some snatched, some crumbled, some fell to the floor—
the mess of garbage created;
for some, savings lost;
for others, toilet paper gained.

C-A-K-E, 10 Points

It was yesterday that I sat beside you
and beat you at a game of Scrabble
over shared coffee
and a piece of marble cake.
When did it come into standard
that I have to play by the rules
while I watch you steal tiles and
use the dictionary to find a word
you’ve never heard before
as if I’m not paying attention
to your every move.
It’s almost painful to let you “have
the triple word score” and record
only twelve points.
I suppose it’s okay after all
because you invited me to play.
I won and I got to eat your cake.
But as usual, you drank all but one sip
of the coffee
not because you didn’t want to share
or because you felt bad that it
started off as mine
but mostly because you knew that there
were crumbs of cake backwashed to the
bottom of the mug
like the Q you threw back
into the bag for me to use.
That’s okay because I like crumbs
and all of this
was quite delicious.
Oh yes, you left me the Q.
Q-U-I-P, triple word score, 45 Points.

Montauk

For the first time in eleven days,
I lie alone in my bed
after having to press my clothes.
Tomorrow will come,
and for lunch I can only hope
for some fresh Italian bread and cold cuts
instead of heading over to East Lake Road
to try that seafood place above the fish market
raved about by the locals.
We watched the sun fall into the water—
red and yellow extinguished behind the breakers—
and we waved to the fishing boats
returning from a long day.
Now only scenes of you and me remain:
walking down the pier
admiring boats we could only wish to afford—
I wonder if that one was really Billy Joel’s.
And what about that hundred-footer?
I can only imagine.
We sat poolside with drinks—
yours a bay breeze, mine a rum and cola—
and speculated who owned the white Bentley
in the parking lot of the yacht club.
I still can’t believe that cars and boats that expensive
just sit there in place all day.
The cork knocks of your espadrilles
on the docks echo rhythm of these days gone by.
No more polo shirted, sunglass-tanned, flip-flop bliss,
equidistant from tennis court and poolside bar.
Today vacation has ended;
tomorrow, our distance from one another
returns as routine.

Messy

I took the last cotton ball
from your drawer
where you keep your things at my place.
I used it to tone my skin
with your astringent,
cleaning my face temporarily
with your texture.
I dare not use your other stuff—
shave gel, smelling of lilac and something flowery,
deodorant, strong enough for a man,
clearly made for a woman,
a purplish-pink razor, and your toothbrush—
actually, I’ve used that several times.
But those Orbit gum wrappers
I find all over my car—
in the door,
on and under the front seats
are different.
I caught you last time,
although in a cute way,
your sneakily subtle approach
to dropping a wrapper in the ashtray
as if to trade
for a quarter, nickel, or dime
for coffee.
As if your stuff in the drawer
doesn’t take up enough space,
I found three of your Starbucks’ cups
in my backseat.

Our Parade

Last night I made my bed with you
under the sheet.
Tonight, you’re one-hundred-ninety-three
miles away, again.
You don’t take up too much space
and little comfort is lost in our debate
over who will get the “good” down pillow—
even though it is mine.

Another night we’ll say our goodnights
over the phone and our discourse
will consist of your noted absence
from the nook of my chest and shoulder
where you fit perfectly.

I worry more when it’s you that makes the drive
and I’ll admit that you travel more often
and I am left to lose sleep in contemplation
of days-and-nights gone by
without you here with me in my bed.
I can only hope for fifteen hour days of exhaustion
when you’re not around
so I may lie quietly,
staring at the digital display
of my alarm clock
knowing that I won’t fall asleep.