Category: Words

The phrase itself is grimed and chewed beyond recognition
until you tie an animal to your belt with a three foot rope
and walk around all day hunched over saying
come on, come on, come on, yes!
Reinforce the instinct ‘til the wiring’s set:
When she obeys, reward,
then imagine yourself loved.

I gave this girl a human name, and call it softly;
Ape the role, though I’m no father.
This ersatz child diverts
my nurture to her needs,
will never care for me in frailty
or carry on my name.
Commensal more than parasite,
she shares the prey
she captures with her infant paws:
The smiles of disarmed passers-by
which I imagine are for me.

Let’s be clear: I am no father,
But I can’t deny I play the part.
I gave this girl a human name and call to her
falsetto: “Come to daddy.”
And, god help me, I’ve bought her tiny sweaters.
I’ve knelt for her in the dark
in the rain in the parking lot
behind abandoned restaurants.

She diverts my instincts to her needs,
this ersatz child, this changeling, who will never
care for me in frailty, nor carry on my family name.

But no mere parasite, she shares the prey
she captures with her infant paws:
the disarmed smiles of passers-by
which I imagine are for me.

I am no father, but won’t deny paternity
I play the part, have knelt for her
in the dark in the rain in the parking lot
of an abandoned restaurant.

This cuckoo’s hatchling in my human nest
diverts my instincts to her needs,
cannot fulfill the full imperative of life.

No mere parasite, she shares the prey
she captures with her infant paws:
the disarmed smiles of passers-by
which I imagine are for me.

I am no father, but can’t deny paternity implied:
I’ve played the part, have knelt for her in the dark
in the rain in the parking lot of an abandoned restaurant,
have fed and bathed and clothed her.
This cuckoo’s hatchling in my human nest
who diverts my instincts to her needs
cannot fulfill the full imperative of life,
but still, commensal, shares the prey
she captures with her infant paws:
the disarmed smiles of passers-by
which I imagine are for me.

At first word of the disaster
We rushed down to the beach to watch.
But nothing happened. By sunset
It was obvious that nothing would.
In the shadows disappointed victims
lit cigarettes and watched the sea.

History Lessons
The myth of the good tsar misled by his advisors persisted for centuries, but was finally shattered in 1905 when workers carrying a petition to the Winter Palace were slaughtered by palace guards.

I forget who told me once
all of Russian history has just two lessons:
Life is a choice of guns or butter,
and the Cossacks work for the tsar.
Simple lessons, but not easily applied.

We can’t much blame the weightless corpses of the famine years,
the trampled peasants at the Winter Palace,
the tattooed flesh thawing with the tundra in Kolyma,
but is it our fault alone that we don’t know want from need,
nor know when we act the Cossack,
and when the unheeded dead?

If you know how to use a wrecking bar
your walls will show you what they have to hide.
Slipshod pipes of course, and non-conforming wires,
and private shame as well.

Nailed to the splintered lath
I found a canvas bag of letters, old ones,
fountain-penned in faded ink,
The story of a lovelorn boy at school,
Of caning, misery, and no replies.

Mere secret heartbreak may not move me now
but then, my neighbor did confess at death Dad never left.
He’d died unmourned, and she went on with no regrets
and only spoke to save her girls the shock
of opening the walls.

Second Chances

It’s just as well you couldn’t hear the man
who found your body swearing
at his dog and holding her at bay.

Just as well you didn’t come around
When she slipped her lead
to lick the vomit from your face,

That you were spared that first of many novel shames
before October in the lockdown ward bereft
of razors, laces, solitude
getting sober, finding God

Mouthing platitudes
till you convinced yourself
there’s some greater meaning here
in failure and in second chances undeserved.

(Well, this one’s bleak as hell).