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

the day i lived at the airport

3:54 am

silent drive leads to
a silent nod
pops the trunk
dumps our belongings and our feet
out onto the curb
tipped the nod well
for someone also in
the biz of collecting tips
collected instead our early a m
pico kelvin shivered heavy thoughts
thumping roller bags across
sidewalk cracks in the numbing rhythm
of lumbering elephants
through the labyrinthed complex
of glassed sliding doors
and blinking digital screens
all taunting the canceled flights with
the single interspersed departure
actually leaving on time



4:00 am

those doors cry the heavy
creak of marley's chains as
they crawl to a close
behind
us
to

utter
emptiness

absolute
zero

the quiet of a graveyard
quilted in a blanket
of nuclear fallout
and the hush of
kittens' paws tinkering
among the ash

there is but one lone
tsa soldier
marching his greedy steps
out of earshot
of my excuse me sir
could you please

turns the corner
never has silence
been so

close



4:30 am

the single brave northwest teller
opens his check-in terminal
to a barrage of
half a dozen
enraged displacements
waving confirmation slips
and slamming
luggage full
of anvils and bricks
down onto machines
built in the 1920s

when our turn arrives
the outlook is
as dank as the weather outside



5:00 am

i trigger the alarm
to a patronizing woman
asking if perhaps i have
a toy gun a squirt gun
maybe one of those
new ooze squirters
my replies are all no

what might i have that looks
like a toy gun
a gift for someone i
don't remember
perhaps a squirt gun

mike asks
what did you get ethan
she leans in over me
like a looming cumulonimbus
yes what did you get ethan hmmm
perhaps a toy gun

no
an ipod
i leak out disparagingly
my brother is 29
and i do not buy him toy guns

she glares in disgust at
my absent memory
i say
when you mention toy gun
all i can think of is a
toy gun
and no longer something that
possibly resembles a toy gun
and no i do not have a toy gun

the glare deepens as an old man's
wintry wrinkled prune face
folding laboriously through the
waves of fatty facial flaps

what do you have in your bag
that resembles a toy gun
she inquires for another go at it
this time deepening
all i can see is flaps flapping
and how unpleasant she looks
in slow motion
as i feign listening in search of
a memory jog
for what i had actually packed
even just a small jog

too late
it had already finished the marathon
was parched and exhausted
needed a tasty branded sponsored beverage
a checkered flag
someone to remove the safety pins to
the number on its chest

no time for all that cheer
the squads had already been summoned
the lock broken
my nasty bra flung through the air
on the feet of hermes
garments strewn as
a fourth of july parade
for the locals to sweep up
the streamers of grandma grundies
the confetti of holed socked
the onslaught of ornaments and
stocking stuffers wrapped in tissues
betwixt worn pit-stained shirts
and once-white sweaters
to reveal the

ah-yes-that
moment

the anti-climactic retrieval of
dad's last-minute impulse buy
the zip-tie cord strapper
that i guess
yeah
sorta
resembles
a
toy
gun



5:30 am

the clock
just
ticks



9:00 am

the fingers remain crossed
for standby
waiting as all the ticketed
breeze by
as if sporting poodles
and bouffants
diamond rings
and mink furs

parading across that stupid tuft
of dirty red elite carpet
as if it could fly them there
itself

we are still standing by
as we watch the plane
push back
our faces pressed to the glass
of departing gate e1b
like a child
whose parents
just finalized
the divorce



12:00 pm

there goes
the next plane
and we are
listening to ipod
playing psp
our standby passes
turning to dust
in our pockets



2:00 pm

her silver feathers
under a thick coat
of snow
her breast and belly bare
her back beneath the blanket
blasted off by a symbiotic
parasite

as the door closes on
yet another victim
it's time to bring on the assholes
those whose canceled
friday flights
caused them to spend
saturday night in disgust
and sunday afternoon in
angst

he prowls at the counter
with a shindler's list of
demands longer than the
screen of cancellations
flashing like wallpaper backlighting
on the technical device of life
berating and pointing
fingers while the closing gate
threatens the tip of his nose

when it is my turn
i smile and say
please just do what you can
to get us on the list
i understand
that you didn't make the snow
and by the way
i am going for
coffee myself
so would you
like a cup

she moves us to
the top of
the list



6:00 pm

the flight is delayed
first by fifteen minutes
then by three thousand six hundred
and forty three seconds
then by eleven thousand
and twenty nine seconds

we count the seconds
and don't
even have tickets

at this point we've had
two sausage egg and cheese croissants
eight cups of extra dark espresso
one grande cafe latte
one chicken caesar and one
horrendous turkey blt wrap
two tuscan ham focaccias
between us
well over a hundred delay
and cancellation announcements
and fifty thousand four hundred
and sixty eight seconds of
christmas music
on a one thousand three hundred
and eighty five second loop

and we
count the
s
e
c
o
n
d
s



11:12 pm

looking out the
tiny oval
panel of a dc9
the land is white
and relief veils my eyelids
in a heavy mantle
the drooping ears of
a bassett hound
twitch in burden
against my fogged and
dirty glasses
the plane smells of
stale sanitizer
the boxed-in compression of clean
and sucked out through the tube
that blowing pressurized air
at always the same speed and
temperature
too cold when you are comfortable and
too cold when you are cold and too cold
when you finally get warm
mass thrusted tension
implodes my head
to tiny bits
of gravitational rest

the lights of the cabin
have no dimmer
they just go out
leaving only a trail of
bleeding dots and speckles
breads crumbs to the
exits and attendant call buttons
pleading abuse
from the neglect of too many
smooth flights

lullaby of the engine
roars a quiet tune
the headphones
do the rest

going home
never sounded
so
sweet

j.j.'s blood clot

i've been up all night thinkin
about it as i'm sure
you have too

your thirty-two year-old lungs
daring to snap you

to release a
bubble of aliens into
your ventricle center

the theater of which placates
the spawning of tiny green men
throughout an otherwise flawless
and recurring system

your aliens make me lose sleep
the battleground broadening
horizoning into mine

i fear that bubble snaps into
your heart from legs or lungs and
removes a splotch of ink from
pages and fingertips
removes a captain from
a ship and a poet
from a collection of
decades

legs cramped from this position
are transferred pain of
the worse-off
vessels in your vessels
twisting along the inlets
stabbing at the peninsulas
beating back the cliffs of
normandy scaling utah to omaha
perched at pointe du hoc
gutting gold swords of juno

looking for any signs that the
troops may be resting
for the aortic infiltration of land
the capture of the flag
the fear of the destruction
of democracy or dictatorship

the crumbling
of the
land
into
the
sea