Postcard from California

I was outside
it’s still hot out there
but I could feel night on the air

My legs felt cool
but the sun was on my face
I squinted back
at my reflection in the sliding glass door

My fingers were warm, clutching the butt,
the cherry was glowing in the afternoon light
I thought I felt my phone buzz in my pocket
and to answer it
I had to switch my smoking hand
and it was like passing a hot coal
I had an instinct to take it very carefully
to brace myself for impact
and prepare for adjustments

Everything went smoothly
so the actualization of pulling up the phone
from the depths of my pocket
and getting a call
became strange and leaded
when I realized that I must’ve imagined it

I wasn’t expecting a call
so don’t tell me
it was some flaw
inherent in all expectations

It happens all the time
I think the thing’s giving me some
single vibrating pulse of acknowledgment
and I reach for it
and it hasn’t done anything
there’s no messages
I’m just making shit up
because apparently
I like to look like
a dick with a technology twitch

But this last time
I sure as day
second-guessed myself
and had to ask
If I’d thought you would’ve called

Make no mistake
every communiqué you make
is a goddamn mess
and you can’t be blamed
if it mixes your mind up a bit

every line you open
ends locked in sorrow

After the Funeral X

The green trees, red brick, and warm sun
The labyrinthine neighborhoods
with their beacons of beerlight
Hidden hearts and bare arms
Wide-hipped women in worn-in t-shirts
The empty city streets at 3am
the porches packed at midday
The secret gardens of the city,
packed ball parks, bike racks, walked dogs,
firm handshakes with your elbow braced,
barflies, Vietnamese Laundromats,
painted signs for forgotten stores
as much a part of the walls
as the wind and the dirt

They are missing their children
every one of them feels so distant
now that your father’s gone

I hope it rains all summer
until the underground stations
fill with standing water
till the gutters are all clogged
and the cars hydroplane down the streets
until any music at all feels too loud
when competing with the pounding of the pavement

I hope men run downtown with their collars up
and their briefcases swinging
and the ones who’ve still got a little something
at the end of the day
push the wet hair from their faces
and smile million dollar smiles
as they walk into the bar

You’re right too
it would be a helluva lot easier
to believe your Dad is sitting around somewhere
than it is to believe
the Cards are playing another season
like nothing ever happened
but towns with seasons
don’t stop for bad weather
the people just note record highs and record lows
as they head out the door

After the Funeral IX

We met up with an old friend
at the gay & lesbian bar
he was as surprised as I was
to hear that I’d be there

We grabbed a couple of beers
and a table out of the way

We tried to catch up
we were hollering deep shit
4 inches from each other’s face

I could’ve settled in for the night
listening to him recount every detail
of the last 5 years
but another buddy of ours
was too drunk
had to be restrained
from punching some mouthy lesbian
who was begging for a fight
stumbled over to a nearby bar
crashed in their basement
when Jr. found him
we all had to get up to go real fast
to drive him home

It was for the best though
better than losing some bit of the story
to the thumping bassline
and the noise of the dancefloor

I got another friend
who I’ve never met
she talks all the time
about there being no conversation
you can’t have in a bar
and I used to always agree with her
but I’d never been to a lesbian danceclub
on a weeknight in St. Louis before
and now I’m not so sure

After the Funeral VIII

Everybody showed up at the wake
fucking everybody
the whole gang was there
and nobody’d changed

We stood around in our shirtsleeves
and good ties
we walked out as a procession
into the rain to smoke cigarettes
or take swigs of Jameson in the car

We talked shit, told old stories
reminisced,
telling old hoodlum tales
for the first time

Afterwards the bar was full of them
from one end to the other
My Captain told me
he expected me to walk up and say,
Here we are, born to be kings
referencing a joke I made nervously earlier
that I’d already forgotten about
and without a frame of reference
it felt like a perfect sentence
right and true and sad and perfect

Few could make it to the funeral,
a daytime mass on a weekday
they had to work or they didn’t
and maybe some couldn’t face the old man
or his weeping son
so they stayed home in the name of decency

I stood with Danny,
one of Junior’s old friends from H.S.
I barely knew the kid
made a beer-run in his rice burner once
we drove fast, the music was awful,
he had his brain in his dick
but his heart was in the right place
seemed like a good kid
to have run the halls or shared a stolen beer with

On my right was an old friend of Sr.’s & his wife
they were pretty teary throughout the ceremony
laughed at all the inside jokes
and looked over at Danny & I
with genuine concern and real sadness

Danny & I shared a hymnal,
though neither of us were really singing
we awkwardly raised and lowered the knee rest
trying to keep up time & appearances

At one point
the Priest told us all to greet each other

I shook hands with Danny
there was nothing I could think to say

I turned and the wife was like a small fire
when she came close to shake hands
her face was wet, her hands moist
she was so warm I forgot about myself
and just basked in her sad glow

I shook hands with the old man’s friend
he didn’t seem the least bit ashamed
to be crying
and for a minute
I wished I were born someone else
in a city hospital in the dead of winter

I turned and met a tall and pretty cousin
who I hadn’t known was there
she was so tall
that when she reached in to hug me
I could lay my head on her shoulder
I told her
Junior would be happy she came

After the Funeral VII

He played the same songs over & over
every time we got in the explorer
he didn’t want to hear anything new

For chrissakes, he begged us
his father was dead
he was going to listen
to whatever he damnwell wanted to

I didn’t put up a fight
he wasn’t a tyrant or anything

He even asked me to put something on
in the hotel room
the morning of the wake

I tried not to think about it
but I was thinking about it
I quickly limited it down to a few options
and picked indiscriminately

It was more upbeat than I expected
it sort of marched along in the background
the sound of a single trumpet
weeping over the melody
sometimes satirizing the singer
brassy and distant and cool

He gave a knod
made a comment about it
can’t remember whether it was good or bad
but it didn’t seem to bring anything to the air
we stood there in our suits
when normally we’d be sleeping
we straightened our cuffs
and waited on his girl

After the Funeral VI

It ain’t supposed to rain all week
the grass in the front lawn
is starting to look a lot like straw
we got restrictions on when we can water it

Meanwhile
everything is just cooking out there
my garden is looking a little long in the tooth
for being so damn young

Out of the three plants I got hanging
what was my best contender a month ago
is suffering alone
wilting away

I’m doing all I can
fresh soil, a turn towards the sun,
misting the thin stalks,
gently leaking in the water,
I pat the soil with the tip of my finger
I speak low around it
I don’t even smoke inside

I wonder how much time I spend
standing on that back porch
feeling the heat waft in on the wind
feeling big & dumb & tired

It can’t be that often
but its all I ever talk about

I don’t need to be alone to talk to myself
to sweat under a t-shirt
to not go run inside
it just seems that
they gallop alongside each other
nearly tied for first
every year
all summer long
huffing, pumping blood,
braced on that singular enlightenment
when you believe your heart
more capable that it actually is
and that belief is tested
on the verge of death
and running your heart out
the whole time

After the Funeral V

I think some men drink
for the liquid courage they need
to stand up & face their kids

I’m sorry your Dad died
I wish it didn’t have to hurt
& I can’t in good conscience tell you
that all things pass

Some things last forever
they change shapes
or we change around them

You are like that
I am like that
Tom Waits is like that
& your Dad is like that too

There ain’t nothing to miss but time
& time ain’t going anywhere

You & Me, Tom Waits & your Dad,
nobody is going anywhere

After the Funeral IV

I think about sitting
my one-day daughter on my lap
after she’s asked,
why I shake hands with an old friend
and telling her the whole truth;
not some bullshit easy answer.

Telling her all about class & protocol
hierarchy
concealed daggers
& superstition

Telling her the meaning of Freedom
is not having to take shit from anybody
& Liberty
is our Freedom to choose
who our friends are

After the Funeral III

Jenn & Brendan met us at the bar
it was a weeknight
I meant to tell them I appreciated the sacrifice
of the next morning

I don’t know if I ever did
though I’m sure I had the chance
in between talks of home, houses, art, & good food
I’m sure I must’ve told them I loved them
but I just don’t know

Jenn looked great
she could always rock an outfit
even if it was right from work
like a humbled Clark Kent
sitting cross-legged at the bar

She’s keeping busy
but kept the conversation light
smiling & smoking & talking about quitting
like she always does

Brendan looked like he rolled out of bed
& into my closet
it was the weirdest goddamn thing
but no one questioned
two bearded men
in plaid short sleeves & flatcaps
embracing by the bar

I miss those two
like America misses it’s own myth

After the Funeral II

Her ass got fat
but it looked good on her
I told her I’d missed her face
& I did
though I hadn’t pictured it
in years

Before long
she was telling me secrets
she was always like that
a secret she was always telling

I never expected her to grow up so well
& she told me she was surprised
to see that I had

She talked & I listened
when her flittering around the bar
landed at my side

I smiled, looking down
guarding my face from her
with cigarette drags
swigs of beer
& the subtle cupping of her ear
to the sound of my voice

After the Funeral I

O’ Bury me in a bar in old St. Louie
where the music is so loud & so good
where none speak my name
without toasting it in procession

Invite my friends
& all those who’ve loved me
to curse & drink & smoke & weep
in the beerlight of evening

Let everyone know why they’ve come
but never give them any proof
save my wife
who must identify my body
let her see that we’ve parted

Let everyone else move around my ghost
between those hailing a drink at the bar
the shuffling waitress
& the overcrowded tables

Let them know it’s okay to take my seat
I’m not up to take a leak or get a drink
I’m gone
& I ain’t coming back

Loft Brand Cigarettes

When John & I lived together in the loft downtown
we we’re both in our early twenties
he being a couple of years younger than me
was head first into the post-21 self-destruction

I had been running in place for a couple of years
chasing the dumb gods of rock & roll
with loose Christian girls, Psychopaths, Deadbeats, Drunks,
Losers, & Women who love Losers
like an old cartoon I just kicked up dust
with some invisible hand against my chest
the Earth beneath my feet shoveled by my shuffling determination
until I was deep running in my grave
I was ready to lie down for the count
& leave that roadrunner be

John was still working at the coffeeshop
did the entire time we lived there
I’d already quit
& was sometimes fucking this horrible lying brat of a woman
to pay my half of the rent
in the beginning

At first we slept in the big open room
a couple of feet away from each other in the dark & empty space
one on the futon, the other on the chair

Don’t remember when we got the fishtank we used as a writing desk
but I bet John picked it up on the street or by a dumpster
left for the pickings by some one-time aquatic habitat enthusiast
before we got that tank though there was this big box
which we had packed all John’s things in when he left home

That was the first time I’d met John’s father,
I wouldn’t see him again until we were moving out,
he came by to help us patch-up all the holes in the wall
we put in, fighting drunkenly in the winter

In between John & I cut ourselves off from the main vein
John built a cocoon of the place
picking up every couch he saw on the side of the road
it should’ve been ridiculous but most people enjoyed the luxury of it
visitors could be guaranteed two full cushions of American sofa

That old American furniture
that is unceremoniously burgled from Grandma’s houses
around the world
was being collected for a perpetually growing exhibit
in our living room

The fabric was rich with texture, patten & design,
thin corduroy rivets massaged your every aching muscle
with each subtle shift

Most of our visitors had no idea though
they came over at night
& no number of lamps could light that cavern

The ceiling was so high & the walls so long
that you could see a radiating aura around each bulb
a clear outline of their effect on the darkness
& something about just seeing that
made them seem always dim & dying
or like so much candlelight flickering hot above it's own wax

We never could afford A.C. so we kept the windows open most of the time
& sounds from the street would drift up to us at night
we’d holler at the bums & smash&grabbers,
kids our age in from the county & out for a night in the clubs
the street would answer us too
& we would meet it
sometimes drunk, sometimes naked, mostly with streams of warm urine,
hostility, laughing, gibberish, unintelligible declarations
of self & country

So people came over like they were going out for the night
I never knew why
it was a no-holds barred slugfest in there
I never wondered then, but I wonder now
if they thought that John & I were only like that for company
because the fight never stopped when they left
& John & I stayed the same animals when the sun came up

After a good night we’d pilfer from the ashtrays their choicest butts
& between forefinger & thumb
we’d roll out their contents into a bowl
& roll a couple of smokes
a little bit menthol, a lotta Camel, some already handrolled Bugle & Top,
the occasional slutty Marlboro, a little grass if we were lucky
they always tasted aged & roasted
& we smoked them first thing after when we woke up
& laughed & scoffed & coughed & took a good look around the place

Packing for a Spring Funeral

He called me last night in hysterics
and told me his father was dead

I couldn’t believe it at first
being as it was untimely or at least, without warning.

It felt like answering a 911 call,
the suddenness, the gravity, the fear & the sorrow,
struck me all at once.

I tried to focus on the words,
I tried to make sense of their meaning,
I tried to console him,
but it was like the phone was suddenly a hot rock in my hands,
that I couldn’t let go of for the life of me.

I never know what to say in unreasonable situations;
I can’t tell lies or restrain my sympathy.

I never can stop apologizing for pointless tragedies.

I asked if he needed anything & he invited me to the Funeral.


I was talking about him this morning,
and about how I could scarcely imagine his pain,
about how important it was to be there by his side.

I was talking about him and then I was talking about myself.

I said I’d spent my whole life
trying to be a better man than my father
and how he don’t recognize me now when we meet.

He can’t see any of himself in me
and I should feel accomplished for meeting my goals,
but I don’t.

I still just want it all to have never happened.

I would rather be the son of a man who didn’t want me,
than the son of nobody at all.

I cried like a ten year old,
I choked as much of it down as I could
and I felt like some kind of idiot,
breaking down for the loss of a father,
who wasn’t even mine in the first place.


I had to go out to the mall and buy a new suit,
last Funeral I went to was my Grandfather’s in a country church,
it was another Spring Funeral,
but I wore a light linen jacket, cream colored shirt, slacks & a tie.

The linen jacket doesn’t fit me any longer,
and I don’t feel comfortable in any of my own clothes.