The Crossroads

Highway 61 chugs out of Memphis
winding all the way down to
Clarksdale, Mississippi.
70 miles of two lane run smack
into Route 49 and Route 161
and the story goes that with the right
amount of luck
and persuasion
you can convince the devil to meet you down there.
At least that is the story they told
when Robert Johnson died at 27, on his hands and knees
howling like a hell hound.

Now there are two gaudy blue guitars,
and I’m standing in the parking lot of Church’s Chicken
watching the Clarksdale traffic swirl around.
I had imagined something expansive
and desolate.
Two dangerous and lonely roads racing through
empty fields and running smack into each other
and then disappearing off into the distance, as if, terrified
of their own connection.
Something discrete, where the soft hand of fate
and luck gets viciously slapped back.
A secret place where the devil is free to walk you down that road.

I am disappointed, really, watching the Highway 161 bend through town.
I wanted something more subtle
but I suppose I expect too much out of gods
as I watched the early morning drunks stumble toward
my little car, the heat coming off of them like anger lines in the air.
After all, for the devil, this is easy pickings.

This is Why I Don't Go to Coffee Shops

We spent the morning in a coffee shop
working out the problems with the novel
I have been writing for longer
than I can stand to admit,
although you keep telling me not to worry about that part,
it’s done when it’s done

and when we were done,
for today at least,
I get up to pay the bill
for tea, coffee and a sweet little muffin
and the guy, who brought our coffee, tea and
sweet little muffin
is ringing me up,
the same guy who I forgot to ask for milk
for my tea, because I drink it like the English,

and he says
“so, you are a writer.”

just like that. And I wasn’t sure what to say.
It wasn’t mean, but it wasn’t necessarily kind,
like I was sure his next comment wasn’t going to be
something like, “cause I have a publishing company
back here behind the coffee shop that is just dying to
publish a redhead like you.”

Plus I couldn’t tell if it was a question. Or a statement.

So I just said, “uh, yeah.”
because I used to be articulate but not anymore
and he nods, and doesn’t say anything which prompts me to say
“well, you know, it’s my first novel.”
and now I realize that I sound like all those other idiots
who come into coffee shops as a fake, you know the type,
those people who don’t do anything for weeks and weeks
but decide that a poem once a month is enough, if that,
those people we were just making fun of, dear,
on the walk down because we have to draw clear lines
about what we do versus what they do
when it comes to alarms going off at 5 am.
I don’t want to sound like one of those people so I say,

“well I have a book of poems”
and I think about lying and saying a couple books cause it wouldn’t really hurt anyone.
I mean who cares, right?
But this guy has already given me back my change cause he doesn’t really care,
and his co-worker, who is smiling like all get out,
says it’s okay about the four cents and with short stubby fingers
pries 4 pennies off the counter and drops them in the register.

I feel bad about this,
and about everything I said,
so I leave 2 dollars in the tip jar
one for tea and coffee and the sweet little muffin
and the other for indulging
me and this stack of papers under my arm.

Brooklyn Curved Away

We had made our way
down to where the river and ocean
roll together underneath that bridge
where, as Ray Carver said,
water comes together with other water.

It was windy, the first fall day
so the water was choppy from that
and from the boats, that sloughed their way upstream
packed with crates like children’s blocks on their metal backs.

When the wind picked up your hat, and sent it careening down the walkway
like a runaway
we chased it catching the black brim
just before it went over the railing.

We headed up the path,
walking hand in hand, our faces red from windburn
scanning the rocks for driftwood, tangled fishing line and maybe a dead crab.
After awhile Brooklyn started to curve away from us
like an old friend passing on
and Manhattan started to appear, and then disappear
flirting it’s way up the coast,
a mere seven miles from where we were,
down where the ocean is.

But it had been so long since I had seen the ocean
that Manhattan didn’t look so grand after all
not next to those whitecaps
not compared to the shadow of that silver bridge spanning
a river that forced its way through the land.

It was a good day, and we had gotten good news
about my father’s cancer.
Not to mention, we had the whole day together for a change.
So it could have been that.
I just wanted you to know this is one of those days
that I’ll remember, even when I can’t remember anything else

Just cause it was so easy
to stand under that bridge with you
and not do anything
but watch all that water get away from me.

Butterfly Effect

I had a poem the other day
it sprung from my head like a little
alphabetical Athena,
and roared off into battle,
waving a little sword and shield

before I was able to grasp it
and pin it here, tacked down
like a museum sample
and displayed on my wall.

but it flapped it’s little paper wings,
and flew off.
It was decent too, which is a shame.
Now, it’s somewhere off the coast of Africa
causing a tornado in Texas.

Yorick's Skull

It’s probably a bad idea
to start writing a poem with the title.
Like I am doing right now,
but I can’t seem to stop thinking

about Yorick’s skull
and what Salinger had to say
in Franny and Zooey
and mind you, I think I might be
the only person on this lonely globe
that likes that book, who carried
a tattered old dog-eared, underlined, copy of it
from coast to coast,
tucked in the back pocket of her jeans,
and what Salinger said about having
a goddamn honorable skull when you die.
Does anyone remember that part?

I’m filling up journals
but I’m running out of ink
and this month is lasting forever
except I’m going to be 32 soon.
And darling, that sounds old,
older than Yorick’s skull,
and I’m trying to pay attention to the Way
and the Work
and keep my mind clear
and walk some kind of straight and narrow
and the intention of improvement,
with the gait of direction

but I’m still directionless
and they had that parade
in Bay Ridge yesterday and those kids
with the snappers,
sitting on the curb, their little Irish flags
and all that anticipation in all their faces,
little teeth, wide eyes, fat cheeks,
Christ, I could hardly stand it,
and me with my dirty hair
and bad knee felt like a monster among them
and definitely not honorable,
not this skull
not this month.

But I’m working on it, love.
Maybe next month.
Hell, maybe next year,
maybe 33,
who knows,
Double digits could be lucky.
If nothing else, I haven’t given up on that.

After Telling You the Story of How I Fell Off the Waterfall

What with the moss being all smooth and wet
I probably didn’t stand a chance,
but I took it anyway
and lost
not just my footing
and fell
not to my death
but something unimaginably close.

You asked me if I still had nightmares.
I lied when I said no.
But they are slippery too,
like petals
or soft like tattooed skin.
The gentle unfolding of vision
blurring the edges of streetlamps
haunted and milky
the wispy sound of houseflies sleeping.
They taste like roots pulled too soon from their beds

like the inside of his hand that day
when he hung on to me and that rock
against the pull of gravity and the neediness of water
for just a fraction of a second
and then…

A Beer at Jack's Place

-wherefore art thou?

Everything is here
except the last little bit
eaten by the dog
so they say they can’t determine this intention

but I’m pretty sure it’s clear.
It’s just beauty.
And for those of you who think that isn’t enough
that the sadness counts too,
don’t worry it’s in there.

Besides, he left the end scratched into the plaster
of the bathroom wall with the last razor blade in the house
before he escaped onto the rooftop, vanished.
The directions are there, just in case you wanted to follow him
from this coast
to
the other coast where the journey ends at a little hilltop house
bursting to the seems with a love for just about everything.
This was all before the fire started,
before the flood waters rose
before his liver quit.
But who cares, everyone goes at some point.

It was all there for whoever bothered to see.
And that’s nothing about whoever bothered to say thank you.

But we knew that,
tipping a beer on the street in mid afternoon,
talking about everything but
what it will mean
when people like us, stop coming to the houses
of people like him.
But what of it, huh?
We head down 20th street, hoping Uncle Jack is at the ‘Root
and that there is still a seat at the bar.