The Walk

I sit on a park bench and take a long swallow of my coffee, going cold, and watch her approach in early-morning bright and breeze, heels tattooing on pavement in slow gunslinger swagger, her shirt (not hers) heedlessly buttoned, cuffs open and dangling beyond her fingers, she turns to bury her nose in the collar,…

Boxes

“The secret,” he always said, “is boxes.” “It’s easy,” he always said, “once you learn how to compartmentalize.” He had learned how to compartmentalize. To the intellectual one, who loved his wordplay and mindgames, he said, “The others may have my heart and my cock, but my brain is all yours.” To the romantic one,…

My Favorite Picture

Of all the pictures I’ve taken of you my favorite is still the one from the ransom note I never sent.

Perspicacity

I watch her struggle daily with her knowledge, like trying to punch one’s way out of a Visqueen bag, helpless and desperate to breathe the sweet air of ignorance and not die the death of Madame Curie or Tesla with his pigeon bride or Howard Beale mad as hell or Mishima cutting up and across…

The Monroe Doctrine

Monroe: a monolith on the landscape of American myth. White skirts billowing about her hips in an eternal updraft, melodious giggle carried on a breeze laced with wisps of Chanel No. 5. Object of worship and obsession and dark desires, after all these years still Hefner’s creamiest slice of cheesecake. The effortless pucker. The slight…

Gone to Milledgeville

Back in the day when a lunatic was a lunatic and an asylum an asylum, there was only one in these sun-blasted parts — Milledgeville — and when your uncle got tetched and started wrestling with angels or that damned cousin of yours picked up his double-aught and went blasting a path through the center…

Solving for Ex

I once asked my ex why my exes never once ask why I act the way I do, and she replied, “Why, silly YY, XYs know why YYs act the way they do. It’s because YYs feel with their hands and think with their cocks. Why, that’s what makes them YYs and easy for XYs…

Sycorax Takes the Train

The welded lumps of her feet ache as she fights to keep her balance, her inch of distance in the hot, overstuffed belly of the subway car. She wears black velvet gloves, even in summer, to hide her matted palms and eleventh finger, and they make clutching the chrome overhead bar damned difficult. The days…

Equinox

On this day when the goddess awakens and breathes the Green Man back to life there is nothing in this lush and verdant world I long to see more than for your hands to take her face between them gently in that long electric moment of seeing and knowing and silent understanding before her lips…

Apple

I’m not going to ask for much, only a Granny Smith apple, peeled and cored and sliced just so and for you to place a piece between my teeth and taste the sweet, tart juice at the corner of my mouth with your soft tongue and your eyes bright as far Andromeda.

Idiot Dog

Some days are walks in a magnetic suit through clouds of iron and umbrellas rusted inverted. I am tired of swatting at chaos, of banking on unhappy accidents and random catastrophes. I am tired of double-stitching my heart against inevitable rents. In the past I’ve often said rather than be the optimist perpetually disheartened I…

No Surrender

Thinking today about My Dead Friend Tony. I’m not sure why. It’s been almost twenty years since he left us, in the most ignoble and undeserving way possible, and he’s stopped haunting me. Mostly. I can’t even remember how we met. I just remember being fifteen and crammed into the back of his battered old…