beware the days off


dont get me wrong

40 hours

paycheck to paycheck

will kill you


but still

it keeps you

from waking up

next to a woman

you dont want to be there

but you dont mind

so much


shes face down in your lap

because you stop thinking


running out of toilet paper

and paying your car insurance

and the bombing of kosovo

and the colombine massacre

and the red sox lack of home run power

and how much you miss



then she says



and you start thinking

about everything


and after a minute of silence

that mite as well have been

12 hours

or a month

or the rest of your life

you roll over and pour yourself

another drink

and she says




and when

she finally leaves

after youve made excuses

about errands to run

and bills to pay

that will leave you broke

you walk to the take out

for something to eat

but the line is long

longer that you are willing to wait

for your next drink

and in two more drinks

you wont be hungry



so you walk


looking for her car

among the afternoon traffic

though you know

its not there

because you were

the one who identified her body


and crossing the tracks

more than metaphorically

you wonder

would i get out of the way

if a train came by rite


liking to think you wouldnt

the way you wanted

to jump into the grave

with her

so they would throw the dirt over you


but knowing

youd move

because you are

too much of a coward



and all eternity


then home

and a silent toast

to her

and more

empty pages

to fill

the hours with what was

All I have to do is smoke this cigarette and die

But I don’t even have the pleasure of the nicotine rushing with the bullet aimed at my head.  The hole in my stomach that had me puking blood talked me into quitting.  And now I’m not sure why.  You know.  Not everything is a big deal.  Big hairy man with ponytail is nothing but a big hairy man with a ponytail.  Nothing more.  Not a person, place, or thing with the power to affect the lives of the people whose scenes he walks through.  So why don’t you suck each other off and pretend that it matters.  My father told me to find a woman who was willing to throw herself on a hand grenade for me.  Does it count if I find a woman who I’m willing to throw myself on a hand grenade for?  Hope so.  Except she does nothing but litter firecrackers.  Stealing the bonzai and my glory of death in the name of Love.  And I’ll just keep driving her to go meet the guy she’s in love with.  Look out below.  Another firecracker.  Ow, that hurts.  Did you catch the number of that mosquito?  Or why I feel like licking her asshole.  Thank you mistress, may I have another?  I can still get an erection.  I must be a very bad boy.  Put your left foot in.  Take your right foot out.  Kick ’em when they’re up.  Kick ’em when they’re down.  I once fucked Charlie Brown.  And isn’t Peppermint Patty an after dinner mint, with no pubic hair on your teeth?  Taking half the fun.  But at least I still have half fun.  Half full.  Half empty.  What’s the difference?  Either someone else has your other half, or you have someone else’s other half.  And that’s not fair to either one of you.  Cell phones for the socially challenged.  Quick must talk about work.  And the way grandma’s diapers smell.  Must have more coffee.  This is too much like reality.  Beggars and pimps. Same thing.  Hookers and politicians.  Ditto.  The cook.  The thief.  His wife.  And her lover.  One hell of a dinner party.  Don’t forget to bring the Grey Poupon.

Yohoho and a bottle of scotch.  For the little firecrackers.  Powder burns.  A nasty sore.  And people telling me WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING.  If you neglect it long enough you’ll bleed to death.  But, I’ve been denied bonzai and the glory of suicide in the name of Love.  As boyfriend calls to say MOM, I GOT YOU AN ART SHOWING.  While I’m over for dinner.  Another scotch.  Please.  So far the bleeding is only external.  And what’s next?  Mozart’s Requiem.  So, I’ll drink myself to sleep tonight in her bed.

mark sandman is dead

i stare

in the mirror with the lipstick kiss

upon its glass


and the razor

of every day

on the ledge

of the sink

as the toilet flushes away

the throw up

from the last drink





she used to say


broken hand

and a hole

in the wall


the one between her legs

was the only one

she would let me fill


i got guilt

i got fear

i got regret

i got pictures under my bed


as the moon hangs low

orange behind the train station

a cat giving birth

under a buick riviera

and the fog horn sounds

over the harbor

the tide beating the shore

like a dog

with peanut butter on its nose


the smell of metal cooking

in the wall heater

like an iron on a shirt


and her in my arms

3am on a winters nite

on a carpet of stars

as the rain falls

and the homeless knock

against the windows

while climbing the fence

to the collapsing house next door

and their dirt bed

beneath a wall


mark sandman is dead


i stare

in the mirror with the lipstick kiss

upon its glass

and move

my reflection


its kiss is upon me


as the toilet finishes

i turn

heading for another drink


the number 7 is luck

in japan



there are just four walls

the bottle

and me


in the bathroom at work


staring at the marble

floors and walls

of the room reserved

for the corporate guests

ex-owners of pro teams





computer people


and all manner

of petit bourgeois


sitting there

looking at the marble

and the fine solid wood

full length stall door

with the faux gold handle

and lock

and the aesthetically pleasing

wood slats across the top half

and the boogers smeared

just below the moulding

across the bottom



about celine


did jesus

fold wrap or ball

his toilet papyrus

So good to talk to you

To hear your voice.  You sounded happy.  Tired, but happy.  Sitting here sipping coffee.  Actually waiting for the coffee to cool enough for sipping purposes.  Morons sitting in front of me.  Talking Megadeath.  Rollercoasters.  Maybe I’m slow in the head.  But.  It still amazes me how selfimportant people can be at a coffee house.  All while never talking about anything.  Just farting out the mouth.  Metallica now.  And how hardcore they are because they remember Metallica’s first album.  How cutting edge because they were into it before the scene arrived.  Though Time has changed nothing.  Ponytail.  Facial hair.  No clue.  Oh well.  It really shouldn’t surprise me to see people proud to point of advertising about how unique they are.  If you’r not sure about how cool I am, why don’t you let me tell you.  Fuckers.  But, still good to hear from you.  Because.  And it occurs to me now that you never let someone or something else define you.  It was always just you.  Never writing checks with your mouth that your ass couldn’t cash.  You know what I mean.  So funny hearing stories here.  How you never want to start a fight.  Opposed to violence and the rest.  Then pushing people’s buttons, amazed when they react.  Because they don’t mean their rebellion or anger.  Don’t believe in it.  Just something the think they should do.  The discussion just turned into YOU KNOW WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE, BECAUSE THEY’RE THE ONES THAT SAY HI TO YOU EVERY TIME THEY SEE YOU.  A very sad statement, I think.  Is the best you can hope for, a Hallmark greeting?  Someone who says HI to you?  That’s not a friend.  That’s a stranger with courtesy.  A friend is someone who is willing to hold your hand while you walk through the darkest moments of your soul.  That’s a friend.  Every night here is a night of car stereo wars.  Hear how loud.  See what I’ve done to it today.  More non-talk.  Oh well.  But to tell the truth, I’m pretty fucking happy.  Despite the poisoned barbs.  And the hole in my stomach.  Coffee.  Cigarettes and hard liquor.  Work thing is great.  Not really.  But pretty stress free.  Money’s not great, but it works for me.  To pay bills and the like.  To eat even.  Imagine.  More stereo talk.  That’s besides the point.  As if there was one.  Now it has degenerated into puffing themselves up by insulting others.  Even if it is a bit more creative than stereo talk or the reciting of Austin Powers dialogue.  And still nothing has been said.  Oh well.  It’s not my problem.  Just background noise.  LOOK AT HOW UNIQUE I AM.  HOW ALTERNATIVE.  How nauseating.  How predictable.  It’s like street theater where the script is in the playbill.  Or is it just the summer season reruns?  Now speed limit laws talk.  Maybe you get fucked over because you set yourself up.  Then ask for it on top of that.  Car talk.  At least it hasn’t gone into drinking bragging.  JUST WAIT UNTIL I GET MY VESPA.  And you’ll still have to wait for me to care.  Surprise surprise surprise.  And a bottle of rum.  Johnny Walker.  Or Jaegermeister.  Rock on brother man.  The incest love fest is starting to break up now.  Maybe.  Hopefully.  Ugly girl.  Golf shoe face.  Small boobs.  Bad hair.  Just took stinking poop.  I walked into the after smell.  Watson and his I’M SO ARTY painted puzzle car have just pulled in.  Oh well.  Sometimes I just wonder why I don’t start doing drugs again.  I just don’t understand anymore.  As if I ever did.  Or wanted to.  Feel the hole in my stomach growling.  And I want or need a drink.  Just to numb the brain and body to the stupidity.  My superiority just amazes me sometimes.  Must we continue to talk about all our automotive/sexual fantasies?  Now engines.  Bigger tires.  Louder stereos.  That’ll never get done.  I’m gonna do this.  I’m gonna do that.  But only in my mind.  And people here think of.  Well, they’re not quite sure how to deal with me.  How to handle the poisoned barbs.  Nothing overtly personal.  But shotgun aimed.  And I’m so funny.  How do you react to a guy insulting you, when he makes you laugh doing it?  Limp dick without a clue.  My fear is that the vacuum inside will force them to implode at some point tonight.  Now the aerodynamics of trash blowing round the inside of your car when the windows are down.  Continuing to plumb depths previously unimagined.  And if you aren’t excited enough already, Andy BUT MY FRIENDS CALL ME TRIPOD BECAUSE MY PENIS IS SO BIG just showed up.  On the other hand he’ll just wander around for a little, until he realizes  that no one wants to talk to him, and he’ll go home without a fight.  HAVE YOUR FRIEND PRETEND TO HIT YOU.  I USED TO GET INTO FAKE FIGHTS IN HIGH SCHOOL ALL THE TIME.  There’s a resume builder.  Pretending to cut off the hair of the girl who sits in front of you in biology class.  Thought that went out of fashion with nap time in kindergarten.  It’s open mic night here tonight.  Scary thing.  A serious talent vacuum.  LEARNED GUITAR TO GET LAID AND IT DIDN’T WORK, SO I SHALL VENT MY ANGER ON YOU bands for the rest of the night.  No sincerity allowed.  JUST CALL ME TRIPOD has been rejected by all inside and is working his way quickly through the girls outside.  He’ll be gone soon.  Too transparently stupid.  And bad facial hair.  When it’s for no reason other than 90210.

Tonight should be a bit more sane.  For now anyways.  Not only is the ink blue.  Blew.  But I’m sitting inside, so no silly talk tonight  So let me tell you about the fun and games after I signed off last night.  Nothing.  Until I saw the, or one of the, clerks from AM/PM here.  Melissa and I would always joke with him when we went for smokes or slurpee or beer or candy.  Then Cara showed up.  We talked for awhile.  Then Carrie showed up, too.  She is Cara’s friend.  And way out of my league beautiful.  But we have had good times when we have talked, in the past.  The three of us talked.  Cara went home.  School in the morning you know.  Carrie and I went out for very late night Mexican food.  Yummy.  Both the burritos and Carrie.  Like I said though.  She’s way out of my league.  Too bad.  For me.  So fucking beautiful.  I’ve miscalculated though.  I gave her some poems to read.  Now she occasionally has that terrified WHAT THE HELL IS HE GOING TO SAY NEXT look.  When we are alone, it’s all good.  But with others around she always looks uneasy.  What next fears.  Warren, the old hippie, is outside playing some guitar.  Ivan is behind me discussing his newest fantasy invention for submarine propulsion.  And he’s not even able to pass junior college math.  At least he isn’t discussing his 3D TV virtual reality invention.  Or trying to pickup young girls in his HEY I’M 30 SOMETHING, LIVING AT HOME, AND MY MOM STILL DRESSES ME style that knocks the women dead.  Or at least wishing they were.  And so on.  Kind of feel like playing a game of chess.  Maybe when Joel gets here.  Joel is skinhead probation for inciting a riot by kicking the shit out of some Klan on video guy.  Madonna on the stereo.  Was Bon Jovi a couple of songs ago, no matter how hard I tried to deny it.  He plays chess well.  Joel, not Bon Jovi.  Though he may as well.  Or some cards.  Or some darts.  Or just with myself.  Warren makes silver jewelry by hand.  Andrea should be here tonight.  That would be good for me, too.  She is way out of my league too.  Then who isn’t?  But we have much more of a connection, than I do with Carrie.  By the way I’ve given up on wearing underwear.  Have moved to button fly jeans.  Still T-shirt and boots.  Same pair of Docs.  Remind me to get money from the ATM.  Broke.  Lenny Dykstra just came by.  Left with the paper.  Ivan you never have been laid, have you?  Well, maybe if you paid.  And I’m sure some people would say the same about me.  And they’d be as close to right as you can get.  It’s been so long, my hymen is growing back.  And I never had a hymen to start with.  What the hell.  No Doubt on now.  Burning holes in the gut.  Both No Doubt, and black coffee.  Gonna try to stay away from the smokes tonight.  Not sure though.  Your Love is Like Bad Medicine.  Gay marines having a smoke.  Of each other.  Not until later.  And if there’s any luck about tonight I’ll only have to play with myself only once.  I’M TOO COOL FOR WORDS CAR TALK BOY just arrived.  Really just very insecure.  Keep talking so no one else can show you up again.  That’s his fear.  A hangover from having moved here from England as a kid.  New kid in school, and a foreigner to boot.  The DO ANYTHING TO MAKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU has stuck with him.  Pretty girl and no stink in the bathroom.  Did I ever tell you that you were.  I was so in love with you that your shit was like roses.  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve said anything yet.  But damn it sounds good.  Car boy has turned talk to last night’s chess game.  Chess is big here.  For now.  Star light.  Star bright.  Kick me in the balls.  Almost like sex.  Just in the other direction.  I just really like boobs.  As if you needed me to tell you that.  Again.  Why exactly is it that after the years and miles that we are still so close, and the ones I came to Richmond with have nothing in common with me?  Why is that?  We are the ones who shouldn’t be talking.  But here we are.  And Animal Who.  Not the way I imagined the world when i loaded the truck from Mass.  Those nylons are just way too dark a shade for her legs.  Or she needs to shave.  Badly.  I think it’s the nylons.  I hope anyways.  Ivan making the WILL ANYONE TALK TO ME rounds again.  Such is life.  Not mine, thankfully.  If no one talks to me I an survive quite nicely.  Quite nicely keep myself occupied.  And a kick in the head.  Because it’s fun.  And why not?  Because.  I don’t know Who’s on first.  What’s on second.  Period.  Nice legs.  No ass though.  Not that I’m horny or anything.  Show me your tits.  Drop your pants.  Bend over, and prove to me why it’s good to be a man.  Then maybe that’s what I’ll be.  Computer geeks are invading.  The weekly trip out of the house.  Socially retarded group home field trip.  Now try talking to someone with a face, rather than a monitor.  Resistance is futile.  And so are you.  though you rule the world.  From a modem, like the wizard behind the curtain.  Drugs drugs drugs and a bottle of rum  It is Tuesday after all.  Say a toast for me.  English muffin and jam.  It up your ass.  You always had a great ass.  Though that’s besides the point.  And quite round.  time to hit up the bank for some money.  Not in the Brad sort of way though.  Sorry.  I’m off.  My rocker.  And an easy chair.  If only I could find an easy woman.

So, a couple of days later.  Early.  Sun not down yet.  And my head is threatening to explode.  Not sure why.  Hand full of Advil has done nothing, except upset my stomach.  Not quite the US beating Russia in hockey, but upsetting enough.  Have to stay awake for a couple of hours.  Then early to bed.  Been up since 530 this morning.  For no reason.  Except to piss me off.  And tomorrow is going to be.  Or should be.  A very long day.  Up smoking and drinking all night.  I hope.  Then call in sick to work.  Because I wasn’t given the day off.  Though I asked for it off.  Call in and get a paid day off.  The reading is tomorrow.  I’m more than a bit nervous.  Scared.  Excited.  It’s my chance to be a rock star.  Though I found out last night that my words.  Well.  This so beautiful that she’s way out of my league, but I want her anayways girl told me last night that she read one of my poems, and it gave her chills.  First time I’ve ever heard that.  She says I have a new fan.  I said new.  You mean I now have a fan.  Unfortunately, she won’t be at the reading.  She is on her way to San Francisco with her family for vacation.  But she did give me her number and said that if I ever wanted to do something to give her a call.  Not bad, for an ugly guy huh?  She was on Star Search when she was younger.  Dancing.  You know.  I just plain old miss having you around.  I’m…

Sorry, got stuck in a coffee house business talk with the manager here.  Good talk.  But a distraction.  And only about half an hour until home for dinner, a movie maybe before bed.  The stomach is in an uproar over the coffee cigarette thing.  Yeah, I was quitting.  But last night was angry smoking.  Pissed for no real reason.  So I smoked in an attempt to keep killing myself.  Still some smokes left, so they have to be smoked.  Waste not.  Want not.  Tomorrow night should be interesting.  Should it go as planned with the reading.  How many cigarettes will I go through?  Looking forward to the night.  And scared.  Should be tons of fun.  And possibly a very very important night in my life.  So much could change.  Fuck it.  Tomorrow is a chance to fix everything.  And a very beautiful woman gave me her number.  WHY DON’T I GIVE YOU MY NUMBER.  Made me feel good.  Same as it ever was.  Same play.  Same act.  Different scene.  Hoping to get it right sometime.  Soon would be good.  And so would dinner.  I’m off.  Again.  Still.  What’s the difference?

i found a dead wasp

in the shower

as i was

washing the cut hairs

from me

after shaving my head


i picked him up

by his left wing

or his rite

if youre looking at him

and tapped him on the head

just to see if he was

still alive


but he wasnt

and i looked

into those dead bug eyes

knowing hed

beat himself to death

against the window

trying to get out


so i dropped him

at the drain

and cupped my hands

directing the water

to wash him down


and as i toweled

myself off

i walked out of the bathroom

to pour myself

another scotch

and check my email