the tide is high

and mocking the parking lot

with its own mortality

 

the beachfront condos

cant see

their own death

in the moon

reflecting off every wave

 

the homeless guy

with scabs

all over

face

hands

and neck

squats outside

the mexican joint

smoking

content

with his

scam

to-go cups filled with salsa

to hide the dumpster decay

of the coming weeks cuisine

 

with hangover

and a beer

i sit

waiting

for my fish tacos

twirling my shot glass

as a woman shoves

a dildo up her cunt

just inches from my face

i cant help thinking

 

the cause

of all my drinking

 

thinking

about your cunt

that ill never see

again

and your legs

and world class

ass

and that slope

where collarbone

turns into breast

which we never came

up with a name

for

 

now its

merely

for the worms

and maggots

and other detritus feeders

that wait for your death

 

and the average wonder

or dont

why they havent bothered

to fall down

or drag the razor

across the corotid

during the morning shave

or rush hour

or summer season repeats

while their wives masturbate

in other rooms

and other lives

to soap operas

and men who remember

what a rose can do

and i remember

how you told me

I COULD HAVE TOLD

YOU I LOVE YOU

WEEKS AGO

WHEN YOU TOOK THE LONG

WAY TO MY PLACE

JUST SO

WE COULD TALK

MORE

 

and the scotch

doesnt taste

any better

but

at least i can fall

asleep

while the children are starving

and the elderly are dying

and worse

forgotten

 

and worse

ill be jerking myself

inside

out

for the rest of my life

 

 

because i didnt take

a long enough way

to your place

 

beware the days off

now

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

when

shes face down in your lap

because you stop thinking

about

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

her

and

then she says

LETS TALK ABOUT SOMETHING

BESIDES SEX

and you start thinking

about everything

again

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

CAN I HAVE SOME

TOO

 

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

anymore

anyways

so you walk

back

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

now

liking to think you wouldnt

the way you wanted

to jump into the grave

with her

so they would throw the dirt over you

too

but knowing

youd move

because you are

too much of a coward

for

forever

and all eternity

 

then home

and a silent toast

to her

and more

empty pages

to fill

the hours with what was

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

 

BEAUTIFUL

FUCKED UP

MAN

she used to say

 

broken hand

and a hole

in the wall

unfortunately

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

so

its kiss is upon me

 

as the toilet finishes

i turn

heading for another drink

 

the number 7 is luck

in japan

 

but

there are just four walls

the bottle

and me