the last night of the earth

I go through these periods
of poetic inscrutability
these moments of panic
as if I’m never going
to write anything
substantial again
as if
in the middle of night
she had risen
packed a quiet duffel
and left under the headlights
of a yellow cab
but it’s usually
before going off
to the punch clock
thinking it the last night
of the earth
that I’ll be spending
my final moments
with half-wits
degenerates
the perpetually depraved

scale

we’re six months deep
into this pregnancy
and last night
she tells me
that not only
can he hear
our voices
but he can
see bright lights
if you shine
a flashlight
against her belly

so she does this
and her belly
jerks

she does it again
and her belly
jerks again

and I think of myself
every time
the sun
shines through
the curtains
or the womb
of my bed sheets
and I kick
and punch
pointlessly
against
the new day

if only
we could
turn off the sun
for a few more
moments
of darkness

then again
life is full
of impossible dreams

but fortunately
it’ll be a while
before
I’ll have to
tell him
to shit
in one hand
and wish
in the other
and see
which one
fills up faster

Inspection

at the auto mechanic
the other day
while I was waiting on
an inspection
a meagerly dressed receptionist
recorded sales and
answered the telephone
occasionally leaning forward
exposing her acorn breasts
before quickly closing
the space with one hand
and eating potato chips
with the other

but even more curious
was a little girl
7 or 8 years old
clearly of no relation
shifting on a stool
beside her
to get a closer look
at those tiny
misshapen breasts

and as I watched her
watching them
tremble ever so
slightly beneath
a flimsy blue blouse
and yellow brassiere
I could see her touching
the space where hers
had not yet grown

and it made me
remember the urgency
with which we all
seek maturity

how nothing ever comes
fast enough
or with enough gusto

and how that perception
of living is often
carried over
into adulthood
as we continuously
seek things
we do not
or cannot have

how callous the gods
that even in youth
we are taught
to want
to be
what we’re not

as the receptionist
bends forward
once again
a gold cross
dangling from her
deeply tanned neckline

and the young girl
and I sneak peeks
at those little
buds having
never formed
into anything more

despite years of education

if you were
to saw
open
the skulls of
college students
on summer vacation
you would hardly
find the complex
topography of
scholarly wisdom
rather
a very soft
gelatin
sloshing
from left
to right
like a slow
arrhythmic
tide crashing
against the
hard heads
of stubborn
and irresponsible
malcontents
but let’s
not
forget
their teachers
piddling away
in gardens
wearing
over-sized
hats feeling
dangerous
after two
half-glasses
of chardonnay
their highbrow
magnificence
slowly paddling
to the middle
of their own
senselessness
stopping
to admire
a pair of birds
circling
birds they can’t
quite name
as they slosh
back and forth
over delicate
currents of
aberration
and ineptitude
but
I suppose
that’s what
summer vacation
is all about
various points
of error
like dimly
flashing buoys
some close
enough to swim to
others
only a distant eye
blinking through
thick fog
as just
another reminder
of our own mortality

low heat

all I can hear is that
goddamned apron
batting around
the dryer

a constant reminder
that we have all
been defeated
by one
thing or another

trying to speak
out against
its clotted tangle

over the slapping
strings of the
work apron
hustled
in the sheets
of another
sexless day

a constant reminder
that we’re not
becoming
what we
always
aspired to be

I have a dream

we are in the baking goods
aisle at Wal-Mart
and there are octopi

shaking flour and baking
chocolate into the air
and over themselves and everyone

else is weeping
or laughing
depending for some reason
on their weight

except for us
because we’re protected
by a gigantic bubble
blown from
the adjoined mouths
of hundreds of seahorses

and inside this bubble
you are getting
an obstetrics exam
from Admiral Akbar
to check on the progress
of our child
who is actually more
of a castle made
of cardboard
and tin foil

but Akbar needs to ascertain
the development
of its drawbridge

so he removes
the baby
slowly
to avoid
breaching its walls
examines its
drawbridge
for durability
and length
and then slowly
pushes it
back inside
your vagina
but not before
you make
a sound like
you’re swallowing
down the wrong pipe

and as if this were a sign
of internal hemorrhage
or premature labor
Akbar begins shoving
packing peanuts
and bubble wrap
up inside your vagina
to make sure
our castle
is secure
and only
once he’s sure
does he then
apply packing
tape to your
labia strip
after strip of
packing tape
telling us
it will dissolve
in time
for you
to give
birth
to this very
tiny castle
which has waited
many days
and nights to
lower its drawbridge
to an unexpected
traveler

it’s funny

how we are the worst
we’ll ever be
to the people we
most care for

you just wouldn’t
think it
would work out
that way

but sure enough
I exchange
such jovial compassion
with cashiers and mailmen
bartenders
men in bathrooms
waitresses
gas station clerks
the boy at the theater
who tears my
ticket

and it’s only when
they begin
getting closer
lingering for a few
moments more
that I can feel
our sympathy
for one another
sliding away
like a dull
dream

as I keep the attention
of the boy at the theater
by asking
the way
to the restroom

as the gas station clerk
winces
when I discuss
the weather
or The World Series

as the waitress refills
my burnt coffee
and makes
substitutions
for my indecisive wife

as the men in bathrooms
piss and grunt

as the bartenders
tell the same
tired jokes
and I order
the same tired drinks

as the mailman
delivers a
package
and tells me
about his exhaustion

and the cashier
at Wal-Mart
double bags my meat
before slipping it
into another
bag with
carpet cleaner
and lemon scented Joy

we are the worst
to the people
we most care for

and there’s some
injustice in that
as if we’re being
slowly screwed
into the wall

and all we can think about
is the weight of the frame
never considering
even for a second
the smiling faces
underneath the glass

I almost forgot to tell you:

the milk has gone sour
the bread is
stale
the cat pissed
in the coffee pot
there’s dog shit
in the bedroom
the living room
and there’s
cat litter
all over the clean
folded laundry
the internet
keeps going out
you got a call
from a
creditor
concerning
your X
then
the power
went on
and off
three times
then
stayed off
there’s no
ice cream
for the ice
cream cones
there’s nothing
to eat
for dinner
the light sockets
are empty
in the pantry
and the back hall
I look the last
of your
pain medication
when I got
stung by
a yellow jacket
and the cable
bill is overdue
hope your
day was
great J
love EM

even though cupid has hemorrhoids and you’ll never be famous


don’t go worrying
about everything
I mean
there’s not
a hell of a lot
you can do anyway

I mean what’s the
point of turning
inside out
over a
little thing

but we do it
and we
do it every day
and for
whatever reason
we do it pretty
damn well

we swallow
the tigers
of our
own insecurity

we dress ourselves
in the shadows
of enemies

we fight back
against
the swans
and the rosebushes

we charge
up
and down
stairways
hollering at
postmen
and little girls
jumping rope

we refuse
the sunlight

we embrace
rainclouds
and earthquakes
dirty toilets
and stale bread
and for
whatever
reason
we do it
every day

we can’t seem
to live
without it

without deflated
basketballs
airline wreckages
drug-addled
teens and
unpaid electric bills

without these often
disorderly and
wreaking misfortunes

but still we wake
every day
drop two eggs
in the pan
while we check
our phone
messages
and our
Facebook messages

hoping someone will
love us as much
as we love
the idea
of being loved 

public relations

after attending
a reading
of some
mediocre poets
I sat on the balcony
of our studio
apartment
drank gin
and listened
to the Mexicans
in the parking
lot across
the way
argue
and throw
stones
at the dumpster

somehow
arguments in other languages
always seemed
less
threatening
even
benign

but the cops
eventually
arrived
with their
batons and
bracelets
and
hauled
off a
heavy mama
into the
stench
of uniformity
and calm
but not
before she
smashed
a beer bottle
on their
windshield
and
kicked
one of them
in the shin

*

that night I awoke
on the toilet
with my pants
and shorts
down
around my ankles
to the sound
of my roommate’s voice
sliding in
through the
cracked frame

I pulled my pants
up
having left
nothing
in the pot

and she helped me
climb the ladder
into the loft
where I fell
asleep
wheezing
on the air mattress

if it is truly
other people’s
reactions to us
that make us
who we are

there may
not be
one soul
saved from
complete
annihilation

and I tend
to like
that

all of us
mixed
in the same soup
acting and
reacting
your A
and my M
rubbing off
on each other
waiting
for another
letter to
float by
and
change us
forever

so it goes

finally alone
but now
the coffee is cold
the dogs won’t stop
barking at
imaginary agony
the smell of diaper
rash cream
still lingers on
my fingers from
masturbating
earlier

Williams is open
to page 33
and all he can
tell me
is of
the fragility of flowers
and Persephone’s
cow pasture

and then there’s O’Hara
thinking of me
as I shake hands with LeRoi

my crippled wrist flinching
from another dog fight

imagining two corpses
holding each other
in the summer sun still 
trying to show us
love in a world
consumed by cruelty

but it’s raining now
cooling off

the cat is sleeping
in a basket
with the remote controls
and I’m wondering
what Andy Peterson
is doing right now

I imagine him stretched
out over the sheets
Bill Berkson in his hands
at 10:08 a.m.
on a Tuesday in July

and how I’ll probably
call him soon
and leave him a poem
over his voicemail
before going
off
to work

and then of course
there’s Bridgit
who will
be having her
baby any day now
as Jared reminds us
that the end of this is us

and talking yesterday
about the marvel rooms of chance

it occurred to me
that if I hadn’t
driven drunk
and stoned
with Armentrout
in Boulder, CO

I would likely have never
met my wife

and as we consider
these eternal
questions of life

it’s important to stop
and occasionally
reflect on
reason and purpose

to think
I’ve come all the way
from Buffalo, NY
through acne
and glasses
an abortion
two marriages
two mothers-in-
law named Jane
graduate school
expecting a child
an alcoholic father
a speech impediment
trips across the country
and back again
poetry pills fried eggs
ice cream cones
and credit card bills

to write this poem
and to mention
the retarded
Wal-Mart greeter
the one in the wheelchair
drooling on her collar

a lavender streak dyed
into her hair
her hand-me-down
sneakers having walked
a thousand miles
on someone else’s feet 

practically perfect in every way

she talks on and on
and at such
volume
about her
genius brother

I don’t know
where he
gets it
she said
he’s perfect
and he scored
perfect
on his SAT’s
and near
perfect
on his LSAT’s

I mean
he could have
gone to medical
school no problem
and if he did he probably
would have cured
cancer
AIDS
pretty much
everything

but then we’d
have over-
population
I tell her
if nobody
dies
we’ll all be
living on
top of
each other

well he’d likely
fix that too
because I think
he also really liked
building things
when he was
a child

but I think
best of all
he’s not
negative
like you
you’re always
so negative
like your
life is so bad
she said

and he’s so happy
all the time
like he doesn’t
have a care
in the world

but he’s
all alone
in that big house
and he can’t
get a woman
to stay
longer than
a night
and I just
don’t understand it
she said

well
cheers to the genius
I said

cheers to the genius
she said

some lives were made
to be wasted