turbulence

turbulence
at 30,000 feet —
a baby screams

holidays over

holidays over —
a pile
of unsplit firewood

is this it?

“How can you call it a blog if nothing in it is real?”
“It’s all real. Not all of it is reality.”

Blank.

“What’s the difference?”
“The words and sentiments are real; the situations are fictitious.
Even this one.”

“You’re playing with me.”
“Precisely.”

November twilight

November twilight —
a pair of socks
my son left behind

waiting at the airport

waiting at the airport
my daughter and I
compare wedding rings

black ice

black ice —
Thanksgiving
without grandpa’s laugh

Thanksgiving night

Thanksgiving night —
everyone thanks me
for walking the dog

straining beneath the weight

straining beneath the weight
of all this snow —
dogwood blossoms

straining beneath the weight
of all this snow —
my back

butterfly party

“I think I’m drunk enough to drive you home now.”
“Okay. Great.”
She was more drunk than I was. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Just then, a hulking figure hurried toward us. I recognized him as someone who might have shot down my kite with a slingshot in the third grade. Ignoring me, he addressed my new best friend.

“I thought you were coming home with me.”

She couldn’t speak, so I did.

“Dude, are you sure you’re drunk enough to drive?”
“I haven’t had a drop. I’m a designated driver.”

What a loser! My hero!

“That’s perfect. She won’t remember a thing, and you’ll remember everything. She’s all yours, chief.”

I handed him the keys, pivoting away just in time to miss the arc of vomit that streamed from her mouth.

holiday driving

holiday driving —
an open road map passes me
doing 75

traffic jam

traffic jam —
a scratch
on my favorite CD

stars

stars —
the sound
of bare branches

November chill

November chill —
shredded grocery bags
hanging in a tree

killer frost

killer frost —
the snap
of a mouse trap

friday night

friday night —
I board the wrong train
and don’t care

Davis Square

waiting for the Red Line I read a poem carved into the brick platform.
a woman’s voice takes me by surprise.

“I’ve been to that factory.”

I have no idea what to say, or even what she’s talking about.
She senses this and laughs politely.

“the factory in the poem.”

As I leave the spit-gray factory,
Crowds of Blackbirds drift
up into the cumulus
Like released balloons.
I hold the wings of my fingertips in my coat pocket.

“ah... I’m sorry. I’m with you now. I’m pretty sure I’ve worked there before.
In fact it’s entirely possible that I still work there now.”

Now it’s her turn to wear a bewildered expression.
I offer her my simple explanation.

“my life is a spit-gray factory surrounded by blackbirds.”

She frowns, then smiles awkwardly,
then looks up with relief at the approaching train.

thursday hangover

thursday hangover —
someone on the train
calls my name

November fog

November fog —
somewhere above me
a crow

November

November —
a stack of plastic chairs
at the sidewalk cafe

(another) company reorg

company reorg —
as long as someone tells me
where the coffee is

for Jerry Kilbride

full of wine
on Telegraph Hill —
a shooting star

Veteran's Day

Veteran’s Day —
an unopened Budweiser
beside the monument

November

November —
an oak leaf pinned
to my cubicle wall

wednesday

wednesday —
I don’t scrape the frost
from my windshield

terror eyes

eyes as dark as mine were never meant to gaze upon eyes as bright as hers. except by accident—literally—I nearly stumbled over her turning the corner between Mass Ave and JFK.

“I’m so sorry. I’m in such a rush this morning I’m not paying any attention to where I’m going.”
“No—it’s totally my fault. I don’t know where my brain is.”

I knew where mine was. Those eyes. And I was staring just a bit too long.

“Can I make it up to you? Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?”
“Didn’t you just say you were in a rush?”

Oops. Time to shift into The Surreal.

“Yes I did. And I am. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that looking into your eyes is like stepping out of the subway and into the bright sunlight: very pleasant, but nonetheless arresting.”

Her smile was an interim step between nervous laughter and a quick getaway.

“Do real people talk like you?”

Game over.

“Sadly, no.”

autumn

autumn —
the day-glo orange
of prison jumpsuits

wake up early and you live to regret

I had just finished creating a right sideburn when I opened up the medicine cabinet to get a fresh blade. when I closed the cabinet, a weary pair of eyes joined mine in the mirror. they seemed content to simply watch as I busied myself with shaving off the right side of my mustache, dipping the razor into the sink and shaking off the bristle after every two or three strokes.

“why are you shaving off your beard?” she asked.
“time for a change, that’s all.”

the left side of the mustache was next, then the chin and neck.

“why so early in the morning? it’s still dark out.”

I shrugged.

“I was awake. I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now, and when I couldn’t fall back to sleep I thought I’d just get up and do it.”

the left sideburn would require another new blade. she sighed deeply.

“look,” I said, gesturing at her reflection with the razor blade, “there doesn’t have to be a symbolic reason for everything I do.”
“of course not. but in this case I’m pretty sure there is.”

I rinsed the blade under a stream of hot tap water and continued.

“I guess you know me better than I know myself.”

finally finished, I rinsed my face and inspected my work.

monday

monday —
a styrofoam cup
filled with rain

in the storm

in the storm
before the calm
I walk the dog

November sunshine

November sunshine —
the cold medicine
kicks in

between the sheets

between the sheets
             the pop
of a champagne cork

overheard on the train this morning

“we all know that the other shoe is going to drop;
what we don’t know is whether or not our foot will still be in it.”

Day of the Dead

Day of the Dead —
the Jack O’Lantern
frowns

same place the fly got smashed

I don’t know why the bartender didn’t wake me up last night. Maybe he tried. Maybe he got tired of the same routine. Maybe he didn’t think to look under the back table. Or maybe he cherished the spectacle of seeing me woken up by the morning cleaning crew.

They didn’t speak English. My Spanish isn’t as good as it should be, but I understood that one of them was about to call the police.

“Dormía. Lo siento. Voy a salir ahora.”

I sprang to my feet and dusted the stale Cheetos crumbs from my jacket while I fumbled for my keys. It was then that my Blackberry signalled an upcoming appointment.

“Interview. Oh fuck.”

All Soul's Day

All Soul’s Day —
the empty
church parking lot

All Soul’s Day —
the cold medicine
rings in my ears

All Soul’s Day —
the boss calls
an impromptu meeting

All Soul’s Day —
the year-old calendar
I keep forgetting
to take down

Day of the Dead

Día de los Muertos —
the dog sits next to the fire
and sighs