Misery, after Bukowski

I have my possessions.
Books, creasedcovered, clothes stretched,
holey. Some silver coins, nil.
Just a cub scout, paper route, merit
badged, buck toothed, ruck
sacked, dough eyed wandering
child.
Without her I'm a foetus in a furnace.

I choked up at the terminal,
fitted, couldn't take, pitied
myself and loved and shit-
picnicked pathos couldn't care
for her the way she needs,
wish I could go back
and kidnap her or something,
make a beeline for Utah,
live as happy gurning Mormons,
bone on fake Navajo rugs,
drink radioactive well water,
be happy, together, dumb.

Shortest night of the year, dusk to
transatlantic dawn in five dry hours.
Was it a dream my hand
twined hers, my neck
wet with her tears?

Godfucking damn cunt shit
all-American swearwords
just about cover it.

Only last night she drew my portrait
frowning and unsatisfied hand
stuck to thick ol' paper bluring
my features into hot coups des graces,
her Gaugin instinct goes agin, in
the pursuit of a better suit
to align my malign chin in.
I sat all lock-jawed
getting a neckache, a rumble
in the temple, thinking I'd better
not foul her art up
by blinking, just brace
elbows, settle in, stare
at the same page of Ulysses
for over an hour,
trying to crack Jimmy's
perverse bastard code.
I flicked a pupil at the pap-er
once in a demi-heure
trying to spy-her
pretty pic-ture,
she frowned.

I loved her pride,
wish I had her eyes
on me right now.
After drawing she drawled
and nodded on the sofa,
sleepy, counting roller coasters.
She is the one, only one I can
turn on, turn to.

I'm depressurised, alone,
darkened cabin, sleeping yanks,
harassed stewardesses tidy messes
on the plane that jerks cross half the world
and I cry into the dirty mirror
above the vacuumed toilet bowl.

She's sat lopsided, hands crossed,
feet tucked rubbing, jerking in & out
of sleep by me on the wornout sofa.
Chewing air, she's gasping mute
"save-me"s, nearly biting tonguetip,
dropping her head then rearing up
a night mare, horsey squeak teeth
gleaming, wax lips bared, noddy.
Up and down jack in the box twitch
as if she massages her hair this way
to give it that Italiafro beehive pouf,
finally nods way down, forehead
meets hands in lap, back complains,
consciousness wafts in, flies by.

Gunshots pop sparsely from the police
training installment down the valley,
bubblewrap punctuations drifting lazy
through afternoon atmosphere, through
conifers for miles up to our height.

Across the shallow trench green
turns blue with distance to the end
of the state, the skyline a Richter
reading on an ordinary day, bumps
of a far ridge, mild green hills.

On the shale path below the tower
Kathleen seduces a yellow butterfly,
leaning over the fence. She comes
back up the path to see the view
from the drystone wall, drooped tops
of pines, grey stalks of branches,

white clusters of far off towns. She
shrieks at dozy bees feet away,
calmly sits back down and stares
at her pale jumping kneecaps
(ivory against granite and earth),
spots a snakeskin and exclaims.

The tower closed at 5, families
still troupe up the path, only
to stare into the empty office.
No sweat, too hot up top any-
how, you can't enjoy the view.

Better to perch on the crags
around its foot,
kick heels,
take notes.

Summer day, dappled shade on dog-
eared clover, above the chalk grit
of opulent driveway a hiss, leaves
catch the sun — cabbage white wings
fizzing, or silver tambourine-rim
bells shim — as wind shakes heart-
shaped faces wildly on twig ends.
Lawns iguana-green stretch out
velvet, some-wheres rubbed wrong
to stand out emerald veined
stalks, tougher vibrant grasses'
slick flourescent oils spilt.
Starlings chat brash bush-
nonsenses between worn branches,
cheap chimes tinkle nothing
hanging from sagged porches.

Jennings Beach

Cross-legged on the beach blanket,
its variegated stripes speckled with sand
and stitches, Kathleen fingers her salty
fringe and brushes wet grains from the cyan
folds of her bathing suit. She reads
The Great Gatsby, holding open the spine
with an unclenched fist, narrows her eyes
in the sunlight, each time the sun
goes in, bats her eyelids and her irises bloom.

On the mat by her, damp towels smelling
of brine, a creme canvas hat, a bag
of crushed up chips, broken sunglasses,
my copy of Ulysses, a flask of cool water.
Her blue-and-white striped dress is like
the collapsed facade of a Brighton beach
changing hut circa 1930. The sun goes in,
shells half buried are bleached faces
peeking from under tiny dune recesses.

Across Jennings Beach, gulls patrol the last
games of squawking kids, harass old guys
with tanned brown hides as they fold chairs.
Moms in bulging dresses head for cars,
collaring their sprogs, wrapping sandwiches.
Their husbands trudge a step behind, empty
cool boxes hung from towel rack arms.

The late afternoon water is blue and gentle,
almost flat but for a little lap, right over
the sound, blue-grey beneath a pastel sky,
to the millimeter line of Long Island
on the horizon, obscured by turquoise
sails of small boats. A gull ruts its yellow
bill inside the heel of Kathleen's sandal,
I startle it and it yells, then clatters off.

A volleyball punts past the white wood
of the lifeguard's seat into the long grass
beyond the wire fence. Along the shore,
shades of umbrellas darken the ground.
The sky is strung with an endless procession
of Magritte's great cumuli, each identical
and dull, candyfloss pillows in flight.

The day wanes, Fairfield's box houses, white
mainsails, the trees, concrete benches, all
darken and burn in the evening light.
Kathleen crouches by the water, its slosh
stains her leg, she straightens up and squints,
paces, jumps at a skimming gull, runs
a hand through the salty tangle of curls
drying on her sunburnt neck. She kneels
again, and stares out at the ebbing sound.

Supper, kitchen smells like onion,
Karl streaks mustard down the bun
slides hot round Hebrew National
dog. Kathleen tugs the fridge open,
grabs an avocado, quick stress-ball
squeeze if it's ripe? then knife
in two, spoon scoop out a half-
cup. The pan, sautéing, spits
a bit, she takes three steps to
nudge slices free with spatula.

Now the avocado mushing, spoon
death-dealing, pulped vegetable
brain sweet and mild on stain-
less steel. She crunches a chip
between her teeth, tortilla salt
saliva straight out a crinkled
pack, just masticate it to pap,
cornflour dry and oh so light.

On the side bagels and big
portobello mushrooms in Saran
wrap, buns in bags, waiting for
the pan, the grill, the immolation
then grinding of glittering molars.

Late Sunday

She made an awkward snow angel
on her bedroom floor, limbs splayed
around, back bending from the crick
in her neck. Her face glazed out
of several rooms, a sore-eyes sigh
passed her teeth as she stared
past the ceiling, thinking the future
over and over, worried tonight for
her sister and bitten by that old
Sunday night melancholy gnat.

It was humid, I tried to talk her
up off of the floor, she was calm
and sad, thinking of life and all
its little dislocations. She sat, stood,
blinked, thought, said thanks she
felt better. I watched her curl up
nearly foetal on the bed and rub
her feet one over the other, that's
normal but I knew from her elsewhere
eyes her train was thought to ribbons
like a T-shirt thorned out in the wilds,
by money worries guilt and ardour.
When she tried to smile I loved her.

Torrington butt-end outskirt street
the kids are out in skirts and shorts
trying to shout down cars from behind
their rickety chipboard lemonade stand.
Running round the lawn, pink and blue
blobs wavering in haze like artistic
notions of children, they yell 25¢
and trampoline, sugar junkie balls
of energy, frisbeeing and jumping on
the dog that moans from its fur,
they drop ice cubes in the jug, by
the pile of empty sherbert straws.
Any middling gopher happens to take
a stroll, even puts a foot out on
the porch, they're gonna get jumped,
force-fed pink unknown, skipped at
with skipping ropes, yo-yo'd into
the next life in all probability.

Cabal

Cloud passes for a moment over
the street, calming the quivers of grass
on vast lawns, relieving the tarmac
of the worst bubbling heat haze.

A soft wind creeps up and tricks around
poolside cries of American boys and girls
that hang, chimelike, with the echo
of a monastery, wind and voices lull
together, the herald of a memory;

closing both eyes on the swings,
whipping like a rocket through the air
with, on all sides, a cabal of voices
like chants, the soft punt of a ball
sailing in the hot air overhead.

But after a twisted minute the cloud
is gone, the road is wobbling up
like a spread parachute, the plastic
mailboxes are microwaves on white sticks,
little Union flags fall limp in the noon
from their cheery poles at the end
of each driveway, among the shrubbery.

The children, whose shouts had risen
as incantations out of an unknown back yard,
are silent. Only chirps of street-noise now;
the flowers broiling, the milk in all the
the fridges cracking sour, the inaudible sigh
of Porches in garages, brand new, devaluing.

Through half-closed eyes, the clouds
crackle like an old time movie, black
with the heat and their great wet weight,
angelic Hindenburg crashing in a flicker
of cine flame through the stark blue sky.
Their passing to the horizon seems to
whiten and buckle the mind's blank corners.

On the hill above white painted houses
a huge crucifix sicks straight up out
of the trees, sun breaking the clouds
to tease leafy treetops with Zion valley
glow, but the white painted cross is over-
cast, Golgotha darkness haunts its pristine
timber frame. Below, the highway churns
day and night, traced by blind juggernauts
and nine to five hatchbacks. The billboards
are rectangles, blank steel frames warming
in the radiation of the Odeon car park.
The sun is out, every windshield has
its nova glare, white hot. June was wet,
July is going to blister. On the red brick
outside the mall, a smell of burning rubber.

Burr Pond and the sun's sunk almost
behind the conifers, spreads last sepia
across the cobwebbed water, catching
gold on the tangled twigs and drowned insects
scummy on the surface, sending families
goose-pimples to pack them back in the van.
The barbecues are folded, stowed, kids
are wet and scolded, crabby in the fading
evening with lake-chill and sundown.
The nylon towels, Disney emblazoned,
scratch young hides, muss hair, whining
follows the cool-boxes and volleyballs
back beneath the trees. Black teenagers
swear and joke, pull sandy swimshorts out
of butt cracks, and make off. The lakeside
is clearing out, but the last rowdy Latin
family hubbub hovers and swells under
the copse, a smell of charcoal and men's
deoderant lingers near the picnic benches.
The Canada geese amble out of the water,
shake, stretch their necks, and make
a survey of the noisy evening sands.

Big Crazies

I been down slurring records maybe
broken half a crown, big crane flies
struggling to free their feelers from the
corners of my eyes, or UP in the
polls, screw-crazy, stir-loose, the
big cheese, the man, the, the, the,
Escaped halfway across, skipped
no man's land to land in her lap,
but soon to be hoisted back up from
the conjugal to the merely cold by
the cold arcade claw of money, facts
situation, brass fucking tacks, oh,
honey, somewhere, stow me, I
don't wanna fly back to that godforsaken
North Sea dogger rockall hebrides
moderate to good ROCK flung like some
smeary turd from the heel o' Europe.
I don't want the mania, the dirt,
the lungs flapping like fish, junkbox
soldiers mugging me stealing my souls
one by one to sleep spare change, the
endless terrifying internet giving my
dreams tumours and setting off flash
bulb drive-byes bye bye birdy baby...
Gonna have to stuff all the big crazies
back down my esophagus and chew,
just use those blue eyes to hold me
firm, try not to be such a cry-baby.

Mild grey front lawn, the creak
of peeling shutters, cawing crows, and
the whisper of leaves on a slow
afternoon. Fuschias hang from baskets under
the eave of the porch, pink flamingo
beaks declining from between the leaves,
raw syrup accruing inside for the
hummingbirds to stab at as they hang
before the shaded front windows.

Dull green rocking chairs, a pair, sit in a
wooden monogamy on the decking, right
by the glass, paint and gilt edge of a fine
front door. Kathleen lounges in polka-
dot blue and white on the blanket
she brought out, kicking her heels up
behind the knees lying on her stomach
like movie starlet in the 50s, on the phone
nonchalant to her sister in Philadelphia.

Now she gets up, dreamy, and dawdles
her way to the porch swinging one hand
by her side, paces the boards slowly
like a white shingled catwalk still
chatting and fiddling sometimes with
the flowers, blue dress blue as the pool
bubbling chlorine behind the picket fence.

The lawn is clover all over, dry and thinly
carpeted with shy white flowers, bees
pecking at their stems and buzzing clumsy
quiet down into the loamy underneath,
down where ants battle to the death.

Quiet afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Telesco
potter round the kitchen so mousey
not-even-a-peep you could sleep and not
dream. Mrs. T stands, busy tidy pursed
lips, thin specs and amber ear rings,
at the counter folding Mr.'s boxers,
goofs with him while he's straining
his eyes at soldering that he's more pairs
than she has, and in so many pretty
colours. He's botching resistors onto a
Radio Shack circuit board, insisting
it's the cheapest crap to try to build
computers on, but what the hell it must
be done this Sunday or bust, Google
just gaffer-taped consoles and fused 'em
and they had millions to blow. He's
trying to build the world-computer,
hardwiring himself into Gaia, Frank-
ensteining hunched over grey-browed
dense and wise, snipping red wires, hot
iron in hand. Mrs. T has another kind
of monster brewing, almost cackling
gleeful as she heaves beef sides
into the big crock pot, farting the last
BBQ sauce from the upturned bottle
over the red hunks, maniacal smile
as she eyes the concoction, "I shoulda
been a butcher." No but really,
they speak all this only hushed,
getting on slowly with necessary tasks
as it's Independence Day tomorrow.
Kathleen comes in, plops her purse
down on the counter, twitches her skirt.
The flowers at the hem sway like
children's faces on a fairground ride.

UConn campus 1st floor hallway
shining with tube light white
on 100 metres checkerboard lino
dull cream color, occasional square
dotted pastrami pink or seaweed
green. Forever walls house green
office door frames, kinks down
a perfect vanilla spine, each faculty
a new vertebrae with novelty
coffee mugs in place of cartilage,
motivationals and fliers plastered
to the doors peeling so slightly
like day old sunburn. The dull
midday ripples the far tiles from
a big Mondrian criss-cross glass
wall down the corridor's end.
Every door has its number
but the last is steel barred and
badged EXIT lightbulb-retina-
afterimage red, in the night
this will be the only scenery.
Pastoral; Vivaldi "Spring", steady
light of fire escape, sheepish
quiet lowing of security camera
servos as it turns its head,
some peanut sucking joe has
his hand on the joystick tonight.
Ha. By day the flora fauna just
consist of the water fountain's
sparse inexplicable bellowing fan,
and the goatish melodrama of
some lecturer banging on about
the American War of Independence.

Breakfast Menu

McDonalds, American car park near
the mall, cast iron chairs with mint
color plastic arse dimples, row on
row beneath stuck-on marbled table
tops. Wrappings, still greasy undone
yellow and white like world's worst
sunflower, stare up at the pebble dash
polystyrene ceiling tiles' loose corners.
Texan family round soda fountain
like piglets, little ruddy screwed
faces, shaved-head son wears Stone
Cold Steve Austin skull T-shirt, fat
mom hippie tie-die, who can judge?
They are thirsty and loud nice enough.
Old timer grumbles about taxes in
his truck driver cap pushed back,
says hi to foxy septuagenarians
cruising by his table in their best
thurs am McD make-up and blouses.
Midget Latina server just arrived
and hangs in front, arms inside
her ultramarine work shirt for
warmth. Fat, friendly, hoop-eared
girl bungs burger-crates in the big
trash can by the two swing doors.
Out through the allround huge fish
tank window panes, blank school
photo grey light of a grey day
over white & grey Chevrolets, Buick
pops quick out the drive-thru, food
falling out the corners of its driver's
lips. On the hill, the traffic lights tick
over for the hundredth time today.

Evening lamp lit living room,
plain oval coffee table the white
of shingled New England houses
with coasters again floral, remote
diagonal, left last night that
way when the TV blinked
off. On the white table, guide
book to Italian art gallery,
photo albums big and square
full of thanksgiving and
graduation caps and smiles,
no ringmarks. Hay coloured
rug like giant welcome mat.
Sofas slouch brown thick
and warm, slight wool scratch.
TV, like rug, sofas and
albums, big and square.
Trapezoid lampshade leafy
brown casts that tungsten
filament vanilla glow on
the copper coloured lampstand,
printed out pages of chords,
and Kathleen strumming Bon
Iver, frowning and stopping
then speeding on like a stuck
record. She's wrapped in green
hoodie, concentrated, three
chords, the song sings from
the wood box and she goes,
but stumbles on the F.
Her feet are half peeked
blush pink out of her jeans
and she yawns plucking
at her lids to get a speck,
too tired from the insurance
place, poor baby. Hiccups
up ice cream and caesar
salad, strums on again.

Kitchen slash living room New
England, organic cereal box idle
on the counter of granite color
imitation, creamy vanilla sink
that can't stand boiling water, a
little row of soap & liquids handy
by extendable tap and plastic tumbler.
Petrol station glass left in sink,
with a sip of stale tap-drip hung
in the goggle bottom. Dish cloth
crumpled green drying like brand
new modern sculpture, neighbor
to white bowl symmetrical each way
but for cold potato fry fat in the
coin-size concave dimple. Cupboards
stolid brown rectangular full up
mugs plates bags champagne flutes,
all sealed up fresh dusted waiting,
dullest utility terracotta army. Dust
bunnies bustle back behind in
crevasses, where the screws and glue
hold the whole deal up there.