Monthly Archives: November 2009

24

Two dozen
years, like eggs,
embryonic, unfertilized,
unlife cracked and splashed
over sizzle-pop olive
oil heating hash the morning after.
One broken piece,
small, brown, jagged edge,
shaped like Connecticut, drifts
into a cloudy white sea
turning tundra when it’s ready
to consume. Delicious.
Shattered out utero armor.
Not enough to notice, or cut
you from the inside, but enough
that you might hear a faint crunch
inside your head, reverberating
amidst the pillars of teeth, feel
them grind into shell and devour.

Equation for the poultry
life that is, sacrificed for
nourishment
unTwo
another.another
young unlife, fried,
over easy, golden insides
hardened, yolk spilling
out across the pan:

shells couldn’t carry
the weight of this walk.

there are those things we forget to say…

There are many things in this world that could have killed me…they haven’t.

I am thankful

There are many things in me that could have killed me…they haven’t

I am thankful

There are people who invite me over, keep me company, and give me their love.

I am thankful

There were times you helped feed me, and dealt with my suffering as long as you could.

I am thankful

You have shared your thoughts and your drugs.

I am thankful

I have been given credit, and given hope.

I am thankful.

I am still here this year, despite all I have done to prevent that.

I have grown because of this.

I have grown because of this love.

I have lost, I have won, and I am still going…

For all of you, for all of this, because you once loved me, and because I still love all of you-

I am thankful.

To John…

…and the multitudes who have found themselves in worlds, whether home or abroad, distant from celebrations of thanks.  A few words and a request:

Life’s a funny ole possum.  It plays tricks on you, and laughs when you look back.

I know we all appreciate our gravities.  Each of us contain too many to count; if we begin we find more than imagined.  We stumble upon reminders, impossible to verbalize, of what matters amidst unending universes within our tiny little worlds.  It’s easy to get wrapped in them, yet equally difficult to unravel.

His weight does not beg our appreciation, nor remembrance, simply a silent recognition, if only once.  Admission.  Attention.  This man has moved beyond hero, in that he’s a friend, who loves to laugh.

On the Origin of Reese’s

by Means of Natural Selection, or
the Preservation of Favored Tastes in
the Struggle for Life

1—Variation Under Domestication

Peanut butter cups
are eaten in many different ways,
depending on the home in which the cup
is found.

2—Variation Under Nature

A peanut butter cup eaten
outdoors becomes soggy in the rain,
but melts if left for too long in the sun.

3—Struggle for Existence

The first cups were made by H. B. Reese back
in 1928, but he merged with
the Hershey Company in ’63.

4—Natural Selection

You might enjoy Big Cups, but your sister
might prefer Dark Chocolate, or even
NutRageous bars.

5—Laws of Variation

People do not enjoy
their preferred peanut butter cups by chance,
but due to some predisposed condition.

6—Difficulties on Theory

But then, should there not be an infinite
number of peanut butter cup types and
varieties?

7—Instinct

That’s my gut reaction.

8—Hybridism

There are indeed many varieties:
White Chocolate, Caramel, Inside Out,
the cute little mini-cups.

9—On the Imperfection of the Geological Record

It’s quite hard
to keep track of every single cup
you’ve ever eaten.

10—On the Geological Succession of Organic Beings

You may not know this,
but there are actually other types
of candy in the world, and some even
contain peanut butter and chocolate.

11—On Geographical Distribution

I hear those Cadbury guys make a mean
fruit and nut bar.

12—On Geographical Distribution continued

It is interesting
to note, however, that Hershey’s holds a
license to manufacture Cadbury
chocolate products in the USA.

13—Mutual Affinities of Organic Beings: Morphology: Embryology: Rudimentary Organs

Good chocolate is just good chocolate.

14—Recapitulation and Conclusion

Almost all confections today retain
a common sugary ancestor, and
many still claim direct descent from milk,
cocoa beans, and George Washington Carver.

Thin Ice

You slipped on the ice and I grabbed your arm, found myself falling with you. You were tiny, always you-sized, and though your heel should have acted like an ice pick, gravity always pulls us back down. The Reflecting Pool at the Christian Science Center had become a perilous tundra; it was probably about 7 degrees out—with the wind chill, somewhere negative, just like Boston Januaries often are. Still I braved the cold, like I always would for you, and we fell.

“I’m lost!” you yelled inside the bar. I could barely hear you from the couch at my apartment where I’d been waiting for you for the last 4 hours.

“Well, it sounds like you’re in a bar…” I said into that Bluetooth headset that my mother bought me for Christmas and you hated so much.

“But I don’t know where the bar is!” Yep. You were wasted. We had a date that night—we were supposed to have a date that night, anyway. We’d watch Heroes and eat Chinese, curl up, find warmth in one another, and finally spend a night together, a night just like the one we’d both dreamed of but neither could admit. You would come over after your Holiday party at work—you were only going to go for a few hours—but with all that free Champagne you were quickly whisked away. But you called, because you always call, and I swooped in to find you wandering the Back Bay streets in those pointy-toed leopard print heels that matched the silky slip you hid for me beneath your dress.

“No! I’m sorryyy I ruined our date!” you cried as I helped you get your balance again.

“No, you didn’t. It’s fine, we—”

“Yes! I did! We were supposed to—”

“I know.”

“—have a date tonight and we were gonna watch Heroes and—”

“I know.”

“—and eat Foodwall and-and then I got drunk!”

“It’s fine. Really!”

“I don’t want to be drunk anymore!” you cried and I pulled you close to me, kissed your lips with a passion I’d held in check for far too long; I didn’t know what to expect once I gave myself over to it, but a kiss like that was one that I had never had before, never have again. I wrapped my Angel coat around you as we held that moment close, and when our lips finally parted whispered, “Someone’s got to keep you warm” and discovered just how deep those auburn eyes could go. They smiled first, your eyes, and the stretch of the skin around them lifted your mouth upward into a crooked crescent moon.

Listen,” you slurred—you start every sentence slurring, “Listen…” when you’re drunk. Something like tears welled up behind my teeth, a tidal wave of overwhelming elation, and I took my eyes off of yours for just a moment when the streetlight refracted off the ice below and made glimmer the Celtic Trinity that I bought you for Christmas (you know how I am with shiny things).

My pupils returned to settle in yours like a matching key, turning to unlock the thought you started eight heartbeats ago:

“I love you.”

Just lucky.

She eyed him up and down, saw him trailing the bags that he’d lugged three stories up her walk-up steps, and he thought he might have really blown it.
“Are you planning to move in?”
“I-”  And he had nothing to say.
Not that it mattered.  “Get in here,” she said, and she pulled him – pulled him – by the shoulder into her apartment.
Good thing, too.  The commute back to the coast was such a long one.  He had it down to a science, of course – he just had to make it to the eight-fourteen from Penn Station.  That got him into Trenton at nine-forty-five, which gave him enough time to make it over to the SEPTA track for the nine-fifty-eight to Philly, which got him there just after eleven.  After that, he’d only have a half hour to kill until switching back onto New Jersey Transit for the eleven-forty-two – the last train of the night – for the coast.  If she’d tossed him – well, crap.  He couldn’t go back to Parnell’s not after already heading out.  He’d either have to sleep in a station or spring for a motel.  And at some of those stops along the line – Elizabeth, that cold armpit along the Jersey Turnpike that existed only to play host to chain outlets and Ikea, or Metuchen – it was hard to say which one would be worse.
But she hadn’t.  She had him over for dinner.  She let him stay.

invitations…

I am sliding phrases

built along drifting analogies of suffering sophomoric-

 

I am as complicated as your breaths,

And as easy as the girls my friends all lay-

 

I am decisions to be made,

times to adhere to,

and things to be respected-

 

But I am juvenile,

and your hand tastes better than any dish you ever plated-

 

So forgive this era of ours

and the leaders my head elects-

 

They make beautiful platforms,

full of promises as they are rot-

 

I wanted to take you along,

but this ribcage said it only held space for one-

 

And he doesn’t even like me that much…