Monthly Archives: April 2012

Day 3

I called my uncle, said, I can’t today.  I’m sick,
I’m in no shape to leave my bed, much less
sit in a circle of shitty metal chairs
filled with people whining for just an ounce
of pity.  He said okay, he’d give me a ride
to the detox in twenty, reminded me
the deal was 90 days of this bullshit
or rehab.

I met him outside.

Sweating and shivering and
dry heaving, I met him.  He asked
if I got it now, if I understood
what they were talking about.
I told him to fuck off and drive.

It’s the worst flu I’ve ever had, aching
in every pore, freezing in a fevered sweat,
seasick on the sidewalk.  No Nyquil
could give me the relief that one
harmless shot would grant.  Instead,
I’m worse than sober.  I’m listening
to a twelve-step program that people keep
slipping down, or climbing up to find
they have no higher power, only
a higher number on a new chip
that they can’t cash at a casino.
Someone says, One day at a time.
Don’t dwell on the past or worry
about tomorrow.  There’s only
today.  Well, today I feel like shit.
What else is there?

Body Images

When people on TV
complain about how fat
they are, how gross it is,
how they just have to
have to lose weight

Or others are given the
jokes and scoffing eye-rolls.
Have another sandwich,
sorry you’re winded,
you don’t go to a gym?

And these disgusting pigs,
the horrifying flabalanches
strutting across the screen
weigh way less than you do,
eating the sandwich at home.

If they are, than what am
You don’t want to answer
You don’t even want to know
Because only you know
Yours is an ice cream sandwich.

Who Sings That Song?

I like the song
Weighty Ghost

So I’m going to write
A poem
About that song

The lyric
Oh, have you seen my ghost


Something inside me says
How’s that?

There’s you


And there’s your ghost
(and apparently there’s someone else

And you’re talking to them

And at that, without a ghost

To call your own)

And then there’s the thinking part

So just what did your ghost


For you

If you can let it go

Did you give up the ghost

Was this a haunting ghost

Is this some soul metaphor?

Which one?

What to think
What to think
What to think?

But that’s perfect

The way it is
I just like the song
If it were any other way




And I’d be over it.

There’s No “Waiting Mortuary” For Relationships

If there’s one thing we
generally don’t have to worry
about anymore, it’s being
buried alive.

We have policies, procedures
in place to ensure this
doesn’t happen, that no one
opens his or her eyes
to ruched satin against the
nose, confined in darkness.

This wasn’t always the case.
Inventors, morticians, physicians
all obsessed over avoiding the
most horrible thing:
“premature burial,”
which sounds much nicer than it is.

Leave it to the Germans
to come up with the large, stately
solution known as the Totenhaus,
the waiting mortuary,
the pitstop between “merely dead”
and “sincerely dead.”

The “dead” got a spa day,
or several, laid out above ground on
nice beds,
surrounded by flowers, monitored
by attendants here and there.

On their fingers were rings on strings
attached to pulleys
attached to bells
in the event they awoke,
surrounded by the cloying
odor of lilies barely masking
the putrefaction — the only means
to establish certainty that, yes,
this person is dead and can
be interred with reasonable
assurance that he won’t be
interred alive.

So just how am I supposed to know this
is every bit as dead as those dead Germans
who laid there, falling apart, until burial was
clearly the only option?

When it stinks?

I Am Correct Because I Am Me and I Am Always Correct

I have all along been the one to say
look at me and the incredible thing
I have to say. Debates are arguments
you agree that someone will lose but
no one accepts incorrectness in
themselves if there is a chance for
I told you sos later. I told you I was right
for this and in this and when this all
goes to shit I will not be to blame
like everything else I was right about
ad infinitum because no one is less
wrong than me. We will look back
someday on our lack of regrets with
longing and lie that it could have been worse.


Hear the knock, knock, knock
of the man in the box
trying to escape,
a stick white man
with a red right hand
who’s never known the way.


Day 2

This is ridiculous.  Idiotic.
Why do I have to prove anything
to them?  “Them” who?
The intervention crew, these AA
attendees, whoever else thinks
I have a problem.  Fuck ‘em.
Yeah, I’m sober,
and it’s not any better.  My skin
doesn’t quite crawl, but it’s like
my blood has turned to icy maggots
that squirm through my veins,
make it impossible for me to sit still,
to hold my coffee without spilling
and staining this shirt that Mom got me
for Christmas.  No, I don’t want to talk
about my mom.  I just mean
I can’t run out and buy another
exactly like this.  I’d feel bad
if she knew I’d stained this shirt.
Okay, enough.  Hi,
you still don’t know my name,
I’m still sober,
and I can’t wait for that drink
in 88 long days.