the sky is an explosion of blue atoms that were
hurled out during the boom and
cemented there like a
wet bloom to infinity, and nobody knows it but they droop
down, like saggy breasts and they
are sad (because
frowns are time’s affect on the
world) but at night they paint their faces
black, and glare at us
with their hot gleaming eyes

I released my balloon into the air–the colour of the

sky–when you looked it square in

the eye, your pupils reflected shiny and black off

off its smooth latex surface–it soared, my balloon, sliced the sky, until

a balloon fashioned into a rac-

coon sprang upon it.  When one

marks with a sharpie a black mask and stripes, one can create,

in essence, a raccoon balloon–they are skilled, spooky looming and

sneaky; peering

into the eye

of a raccoon gets you squat—an opaque whiff of stretched rubber.

But my balloon was blue and round and perfect–the holder of my breath, an

extension of my eyes with all its eyes from all the eyes of people who’ve

looked upon it, breezing bird-style over the squares of the world;

disbelievingly, I watched teeth sink into her, and all those pupils which

deserved mirrors deflate and

plummet. If there’s ever a next time,

purple will be my chosen colour, as coons aren’t fond of it.

If I was a robot     I’d self-destruct     everyday

before breakfast     and after lunch     I’d reconstruct myself

and I’d whisper to myself     at the table     several

times in a row     the word love over and over

until it started to click     until something clicked

and then I’d turn myself off     and in my dreams

I would sit on my sofa     and lick the telephone

receiver     for the salt of your voice

Chuck used to lie in the basement all night

and lick the thunder clean.  His cat was also named Chuck.
I couldn’t lumber to the bathroom from the couch without
Chuck’s cat Chuck rubbing the hell out of my leg.

Looking back, I think Chuck was an addict.  Always in a
bitchy mood, he’d appear in the hallway wearing blank
ghostly eyes and a smile.  So many things in life seem

normal, until you reflect on them later, and you
see they were deathly and perverted.  And the future, too,
is a sinister clown waving you past.  Rendered a wet whisper, and scattered

over the dusty carpet, Chuck the cat would nuzzle the thunder until dawn.

Bam! Blood vessel pops like

gunshot, leaves me

lifeless

in this alley and Sarah and

Alisha–on break–find me in

jeans

and jersey, lying warm but

lifeless among sparrow-chirps in

cool morning light. Fading to

blue sky, I watch the brown

tops of their

heads scatter like fleas, drop their

cigarettes, flee inside…all alone

a sprawling corpse in Chiefs

red, forearms burning from

UV rays, it waits–me, my flimsy dead

vessel–for mom and wife and daughter

to carry off, still youthful—still might

smile any moment, needing hair

trimmed before a wake.

A plump
mouse with a
bristly
orange hair-
do
spreads
from one
side of pot-
ato bread
to ano-
ther, thick
green peanut
butter.

When I was a child I often quietly
worried that everyone was an alien
and I was the only real person on earth.
My family, my friends
And each casual acquaintance
Was an alien in disguise.
I never let my guard down,
Just in case.

Sometimes I felt that God had chosen me
to be someone important
or that maybe I was God’s true son
like the next Jesus
which troubled me
because I knew it was a delusion of grandeur.

chris would tell mom
I was a paranoid schizophrenic.
I didn’t know what that was
so it freaked me the hell out.

I used to play ninja turtles with josh
back when everyone loved ninja turtles;
but secretly I loathed them,
I just wanted to sit in the same room with him
and feel like part of something big.

Then when everyone else outgrew their toys
I couldn’t let them go.

He had an issue of People Magazine
that showed a woman’s tits.
For some reason I couldn’t stop looking at it–
it was my addiction,
I adored it,
pleased as fuck
with the new inexplicable
threshold of intrigue.

I followed Josh around
and did whatever he did
because I thought I should be more like him
because he didn’t think about things as long as i did,
and that made him seem
like more of a real person.

I was a follower,
And I hated it
But there was nothing I could do
To stop it.

I wondered about my sexuality
Before I even had a sexuality
Before I knew the difference
Before I ever had to open my eyes
To the cold naked fact of the world.

I didn’t understand
My attraction to friends
Or my attraction to tits
Or the fear of being alone.

Scottie would complain
About niggers
And the rest of his family would laugh.

Later I told Josh
I was sick of all the blacks
b/c Josh idolized Scottie
as Scottie was funny
Scottie was tough
and Scottie used to beat the shit out of us.

Josh didn’t say a word,
Maybe he knew
I didn’t really hate blacks
Or maybe he didn’t hate blacks
But it is still one of the most humiliating
Moments of my life.

I hated Brad
because Brad had a southern
aristocratic foul mouth
big house and bad breath.

Back then we played football
Every day
And if you didn’t want to play
We beat the fuck out of you.

One time Brad threw the ball
And hit me in the side of the head
When my back was turned.

I threw his ball in the creek
And ran into the house
And cried.

Looking back
I would have kicked the shit out of Brad
But instead I went cryin to my mom.

One time
I beat the shit out of my younger
Friend Guarav
With one of those ungodly huge
Orange wiffle ball bats
For no reason at all.

I knew the whole time
That I should stop
But something deep down
Kept me going
Kept me swingin at poor Guarav
Like an addiction
I couldn’t get enough
I couldn’t control myself.

A neighbor lady witnessed the whole thing.
I could see the look of horror and disgust
On her face
And it made me swing all the more.

The lady freaked out
And told his mom
But I was fast
And got the hell out of there
And never got in trouble.

I wonder if Guarav
Could forgive me,
If he feels like a pussy
For getting beat stupid
Because a lot of the things I’ve done
In my life
Have been cowardly and coldblooded,
Regrettable
Even now;

Now that I am an adult
And trying to raise a child
And be the head of a household

Trying to be firm
Courageous
Trying to be tough
And never run home to mommy
and teach by example
To never prey on the helpless;

Now that I am trying
To be a man
And never allow
That ancestral fear
Out into the open;

Trying to be tough
Now that this world
Has hardened me
With the mass’s bad breath
and the expectations
That come with being a leader;

With the curse that came
When my oldest descendant
Realized he was naked and ugly
And let that shame consume him;

Because I know full well
What atrocities I’m capable of
And I know the difference
Between right and wrong.

So I pray
That God forgive me
And help me make sense
Of this.

my wife rolls over
and tells me
to go to sleep.

i’m afraid to.
if i allow my body
to let go,
i might not be able to
bring it back.

she says i worry too much,
but i don’t want any spiders
to bite me while i’m asleep.
they say that spiders
crawl over you
and try to drink
from the corners of your eyes.

it’s what that song is about.
we used to play that song
as hard as we could,
and i would throw my body around
w/ wreckless intent
at bars,
in front of our country’s finest.

now i sweat in my bed
and swat at every tickle,
hoping to crush any and all
possible bugs.

i try to imagine why it rains–
how i am stuck on this
spinning rock, where,
for whatever reason,
sometimes it rains
and sometimes it doesn’t.

maybe it will tonight

and the spiders
can go to puddles
and get fat on the water
and leave my poor sleeping
carcass alone

w/ my tragic brain wondering,
trying to let go.

I tried to eat a man
whose face I thought looked
like a pastrami rheuben sandwich.

He led me to the Sahara
where we crushed tiny people
with medium-sized rocks.

I realized his hat wasn’t a sandwich.
Then I remembered it was his head
that supposedly was a sandwich.

And the thought made me hungry
but I got lost on the way
and had to beg a turtle for my life.

On top of the bar, a demon scarecrow battles an axe-wielding mutant toad. As this mook is giving me her order, I look over at the cook as if to say, “smash them with your hand, quick, they’re making too much noise, I can’t hear the customers!”

The mook orders a Rueben with no kraut. the cook raises her eyebrow at me, then turns toward the grill.

Cripes! I hope no one sits at the bar! What if a customer gets a tiny axe in their eye? Surely, they’d sue.

Table 3, the guy looks like the man on cartoons who carries a frog around in a box; who thinks the frog is horribly talented, but as soon as he shows us the frog it just lowers its eyelids and croaks. Yeah, THAT guy.

“What can I get ya?” I ask.

He squints his eyes and reads from the board like a first-grader, sounding it out: “What’s baked tortellini soup?”

Without batting an eye, I answer, “German sausage…tortellini noodles…veggies…tomatoes…”

He grips the menu hard, studies it. He has deep grooves in his forehead when he tightens his brow, his arms are long and skinny, he has darkness under each eye. He probably works at Social Security.

I turn my head. The scarecrow and the mutant toad are kissing each other on the cheek like Italians. There must’ve been peace talks. Is it Italians? I’m relieved we don’t do that in the States. I would’ve had to kiss this grim weirdo from Social Security.

“Get me the Southwest Turkey with no green chiles,” he folds up the menu and hands it to me, “and a water.”

I don’t know where these people come from. You can’t get a Southwest Turkey with no chiles. Then, there’s nothing Southwest about it. And you can’t have a Rueben with no kraut. This is Kansas—we’re all Krauts!

I took my order book behind the bar, handed it to the cook.

“What is this?!” she says.

“I know.” I say.

I begin scooping ice into glasses, listening for the almost silent “ting” sound when the ice hits the bottom of the glass. I look up and the demon scarecrow and the mutant toad are at it again. I turned to the cook.

“Life is War.”

“You’re a dork,” she says.