the call came
the call for words
letters forming words
words forming strings of meaning
meaning that has yet to be discovered
this is what happens
the indefinite asserts itself
a drifting of sorts without any intention
intending to, but not quite capable of execution
the intent or execution to make this the here and now
an answer for everything, you have
perfected the art of that beverage and
crucially determined the iphone app we all
require
congrats on that vinyl recommendation and your
blog
links abundant to all of your other
advertisements
reminding us of what we have missed in your
absence
and as the facebook opens up, as your images illuminate my phone
as i drift away and forget to hit like
am i here
i am here
am i here?
i listen to the air
conditioning
good night
I had found myself all alone, on a Sunday night, sitting at the long kitchen table that was
birthed as a tool bench, before being reappropriated at the Depot House. As we all were to a certain degree, I was longing for some quiet time. Depot housed six of us that summer, and the peace of that solitude gave me time to work on my latest poems. The trains whirred by hourly, as Mystic was a small
station that was only afforded three stops a day. It was the main reason the six of us were even able
to rent the house at all; it’s proximity to the tracks while sitting within a sea of pavement made the
market for Depot rather limited. We were clinging to each other , trying to weather the storm of the first Bush recession as we established our lives beyond childhood, and the securities of home. For a group of people in their early twenties, that was a reality none of us wanted to return to.
A near silence was broken with one loud crash of the screen door, against the front of the house. In the
balmy air of late summer, and with no need to lock out strangers, the heavy main door was wide open.
That doorway was now filled with the visage of Kane, his eyes ablaze in a furious fit.
The open space I was so desperately seeking- vacating the violence of my family life, was suddenly
being relegated within the place I least expected to see it. We had all got along famously at Depot, with
a shared belief system, and a shared commitment. And yet, perhaps, this was a simple illustration that
for everyone, the violence we were so frightened of was in each and every home. He turned sharply to
the right and ascended the stairs, the heavy clomp of his leather shoes banging on the old wood floor as
if trying to stomp his anger into the very soul of the building.
Moments later, the episode would become fully apparent. Gary, who had his routine quarrels with
Kane, stumbled up the stairs, and grasped the screen door with both hands. A certain pause
preceded his opening of the door, and I stood up, beginning to absorb the intricacies of the changing
landscape. As he slid around the screen door, quite the opposite entrance from Kane, Gary
approached me, coming out of the dim light of the foyer into the fluorescence of the kitchen. I could see
that he was wounded, a gash on his left cheekbone just under the eye, where bone meets the least
amount of flesh on the face. It looked as if some superhuman being had dug their finger into his soft
tissue and pulled it off of the skull. And it simply remained in that form, as if you could set a golf ball on
it and use it for a tee. Surprisingly, the blood was minimal, but I knew I had to get him to the emergency
room.
“What the fuck happened?” I asked
“We were drinking at John’s, and on the way home we got into a fight. At one point he pushed me, and I lost my balance. I fell face first onto a curb………”
“Get your ass into the truck! Now!”
I began the drive out of town toward the emergency clinic, about ten miles away. Unfortunately, I didn’t
check the time, and more than likely would not have remembered that the clinic closed at midnight.
When we rolled into the parking lot, the entire complex was dark except for the lot lights, not a
single car to be seen. We needed to drive out to the first town over the border, into Rhode Island,
as they had a hospital that had to be open 24 hours a day.
When I told my mom the story during a phone call one night, she replied in her singular, revealing drawl-
“Now you know how I feel……”
originally published in the All Ages Press zine
“Smaller Town”
from opposite directions each line meets, then intersects the other
the tiny checked pattern of the mantle glistening
red-flecked on white in a sea of blue swirling down its length
softly, almost imperceptibly, the kern emits a subtle hiss in adjustment
and around again, now skyward, arching in perfect symmetry towards the others each
from opposite directions, again, each line meets, then intersects the other
the patterns challenge each other in passing and on through the loops
and to end with a quick squeak, the final tightening, wound and rewound
Tonight you fell asleep in my arms.
The rhythm of your breathing
from time to time
finding its synchronicity with mine.
The images of the two entwined
develop and devolve
under the flickering light of the screen opposite
a string of words and images flashing…flooding.
And in that, you under my arm sinking into the elusive oblivion
leading the way as that last bit of gin makes its way past my gullet.
i woke up when I wanted to-
a 16 year old with no job, no responsibilities
other than to show up on time for
band practice.
that was easy enough, as our band practiced
in the basement of my mom’s house.
“you had better come home with a job today. If not, say hello to living with your father!”
that was the worst thing I could hear from my mother. whenever my brother or I truly fucked up,
it was the final threat to bring us back in line.
“DO YOU WANT TO LIVE WITH HIM!”
moving into my fathers house was a death sentence,
not in a literal manner,
but rather within the long term scope of our lives.
my brother and I were acutely aware of that,
a curious side effect of divorce.
at 11am that same day, Alex called me. he had found “the amp” that would
catapult our nascent rock group to the next level.
his search led him to an ad in the Bargain News,
a weekly print magazine that was the craigslist of it’s time.
455 Whalley Avenue. New Haven.
we set out in Alex’s 1971 Pontiac in search of the near future.
as the salesman moved four dust ridden amps out of the way,
the Roland JC120 was revealed to us.
it was a shining purity amongst the detritus of the other equipment in the room,
no doubt bought and discarded by a wealthy gold coast family
who had succumbed to the momentary whims of an obsessed teen.
that was as far from our reality as possible.
Alex was the actual recipient. he had paid his early dues.
after more cash changed hands than I had ever previously witnessed,
we loaded the amp into the Pontiac. unfortunately, the car wouldn’t start,
even as Alex valiantly attempted to get the engine to ignite.
i tried not to be overbearing as the episode took shape,
but after the first hour, I couldn’t help but plead with him,
as if my words could somehow transmit the power to start the car into Alex’s hands.
“i have to get a job today before I go home tonight! we have to get back to town!
i’m seriously jeopardizing everything here…..”
the engine started.
we should be back in town by 6pm.
my 6th grade teacher spent his summers
as the maître d’ at one of the local restaurants.
with less than an hour to spare
to secure my first position of employment,
i had no choice but to plead with Mr. Z to help me
procure a dishwashers job
at the restored Inne, where he charmed each diner
with an effortless grace, his voice illuminating the spaces of any conversation.
i was introduced to the head chef and his assistant,
my outstretched hand was not reciprocated in the dark of the
basement tavern.
that traditional slight made no difference to me,
as I walked up the steep valley side
from the riverbed
to our house on the ridge. i was ready to confront my mother, having the gold
coin she needed as proof,
in my handmade canvas pouch.
“did you get a job today?” she shouted at me as I entered the kitchen, mired within the expectancy of
payback time.
“i start at the Packer Inne, doing dishes, tomorrow night.”
“i’ll call your father and tell him you won’t be coming over tomorrow.”
sitting here waiting for the drugs to kick in
this means as much now as it always has
but the way is different, the substance of it
another sip to satisfy the simple need,
indeed
to fuel and be fueled, in ritual and ransom
forcing the darkness, as one does, behind
between the two windows, under the lamp
as the intended course of action gets
traction
the drive seemed to be endless,
and my mother seemed to be lost.
in Norwich, on the northernmost edge
of our secluded world.
it was Christmas Eve,
and we were trying to find a holday party
that we were actually invited to.
a party with promises
of gifts- to fill the void
of tomorrows anticipated vacancy.
we eventually found the house,
and my mother pulled off an incredible parallel parking maneuver
in the snow and ice, on the slight hill.
it didn’t seem that we knew anyone at this party, uncomfortable
to the extent that even being given a
gift seemed like charity.
my mother prided herself in not giving in. on this night, it seemed as if we were.
it never happened again.
in town, there was a famous
Christmas Night party, which I was
now old enough to participate in.
i had just. enough. status.
to be invited.
the first guest I would encounter had an original screenplay in production.
in Hollywood.
that afternoon was the first time my step-father let me drink beer with him-
a conference with both elements of our families that
became a rallying cry between the two of us.
for the first time, we had an unspoken certainty,
that found it’s conclusion in his reassuring words:
“have another. you’ll be fine”
my father and his first roommate, after leaving home,
collected miller lite cans from the first sunday
of football season, until the holidays- their goal
was to decorate an entire tree in nothing but
miller lite cans
as part of a contest
for the brewing magnate.
they stole two shopping carts from the local supermarket
to store four months of empties,
before they were to deliberately hang each can
from a proper, ornament hook.
i had to be escorted out at 11.30 pm
from the party. beyond drunk ….
passed out on the “dance floor.”
i was thinking to myself, after a bleak sunrise-
“you have embarrassed everyone!”
there certainly were more elegant ways to leave a lasting impression.
but wasn’t that the point? to make a mark?
i would never be invited to the party again.
i could hardly blame them.