today i was fitted for new ear plugs

shaped to my inner ear
and the battlefield scars of my
holed non-waterproofed eardrums

bulky and protruding
with large r and l indicators
tiny grips for convenient removal
and embarrassingly bright blue

in the mirror i see them
as others see them
bold blue beacons of differentiation
and confidence loses its
reflection

flashbacks to childhood
those bits of wax the size and
shape of hominy
tiny chunks that would break off
get lodged in my ear
requiring surgical removal

the humiliating days of
middle school locker room showers when
it was apparently humorous for others
to poke fingers in my ears at the plugs
despite my sad begging look of
a thousand starving children

now the future is here
in molded plastic and a comfort fit
pieces that don't break off
waterproof with a tiny carrying case
annoyingly labeled with my name
in case you didn't know the defective one
complete with chain to wear as beach bling
to the special olympics

specially formed for my
scarred and damaged eardrums
to go under water in complete comfort
without design flaws
except one
for my confidence

but hey doc
i'm sure no one will notice
that they're
fucking bright blue

no, tom brady doesn't come here

look around this bar
and tell me
what tom brady would find here

yet he visits up the road a piece
his dad a regular at the
difference a few blocks and
a few more wines can make

when john malkovich used to
sit back at booth 24
i thought it a good fit
his quiet bohemia mingling with
pbr's and dim lights and
bad-tipping tufts students

but he was no football star
the ooohs and ahhhs not so grand
below the breaths and eyes
quick to turn away
easily distracted by the equally mundane

no supermodels on arms
no small talk because he's been
hit too many times
to think of anything clever

yes that's what this bar needs
more glamor less intellect
less poetry
more shoulder pads

the day edward norton came into my bar

i wished i were naked
not because
i want to be bare
in front of ed norton
but because
i happened to be wearing
under terrible coincidence
my incredible hulk shirt
like a geeky comic book fancore nerd

over my shoulder
tvs blaring previews
for the very movie
whose wares i am sporting

approaching the table
placing coasters just perfectly
he knows i know
offers eyes
and says

nice shirt

in my head
i ask him for his autograph

out loud
i ask him what he'd like
to drink

exoskeletons

sweeping tiny
exoskeletons
from windowsill
into palm
righting the pots
dusting loose soil spilled
from the latest
feline mauling

i hold the chewed
broken body of
seedlings i had nurtured

a small tree i had named
spruce springsteen
now a slimy mess
of gummed trunk
and budding needle
struggling to breathe

and elvis parsley
now just a spot of
green gunk
held in my
mothering hand

the feeling
of birthing
a stillborn

leper messiah

shifting of mismatched eyes
androgynous stance
through filtered light
feathered hair
fetished mascara and
outlined lips
of persed liquid language
pursed shimmer
stardust flecked
mismatching
those eyes

but boy
could he
play guitar

sally bowles' final bow

a decade ago
i perched in
the middle of row m
smack in the center
where the sound
hits your face
the best

as you spun
a decadent character of
delicate melancholy
and tragedy

spending her time
on her back
in a bed
on the stage

the tinny taste of
metallic irony
of your removal
from the stage
to the bed

where melancholy characters
finger your broken head
with delicacy

the reversal of tattered roles
quiet hum of machines
fighting to hold
your spotlight in place
your head in place
their lives intact

the one second that
next second this
thoughts of what
should i could i
have done on lips
as silent as yours

cords plugs decisions
lives on many
metaphoric lines

all get pulled
and pushed back
and forth
sway like curtains
pulled after the bow

the darth vader breathing
dr manhattan stare
occasional twitch of
frankenstein reviving
or ophelia resurfacing

your last great role
resounding
in curtain calls and
light fades
autographs
fermatas and
pianissimo
the held chord
a lasting echo

none of the odds are
in your favor
but maybe next time
you'll be lucky
maybe next time
you'll win

bangs are that on which the world hangs

strutting
along mass ave
central square
hopping with a
hip step
strolling with a
cool swinged
swagger
checking myself out
in the curio windows
the reflections of the
junk shops and
hobo hangouts

thinkin yeah baby
that's right
i'm bringin back
the bangs

and i blow up a
little puff of breath
to feather them
as they fall into place
in love with each other

when

my hip hips
and sordid ankle
strike the hole where
a brick had been borrowed
for the foundation of a
hobo's house

and down i go
pride and face first
my bangs landing
across a puddle of
rainwater

wet as anita ekberg
and still dancing
in their own fountain

spare change

en route to the bank
three thousand in cash
burning a hole in my messenger bag
dollar bills
tips from the bar
here and there cash
collected from two months
of not depositing

there ahead the regular
selling the
spare change homeless newspaper
for a buck a pop
his eyes
his hands
asking only for the buck
one small dollar

here i am
with three thousand of
the very thing he asks
and who am i
to pass
with fists tight
knuckles emerged
eyes down

i hold out my hand
into his hand
a crumpled bill between us
shuffles the papers
i've already got this week's
and just say keep it

eyes meeting for a split
in that shameful space around us
i wretch past
hear him
unfold the bill and gasp
another and a blessing for me
but i am too far gone now

i step to the teller
slip in hand
cash in the other
say
it will be short
twenty
just scribble it out