Desert

The line between loneliness and self-reliance is drawn

around dinner time when you decide to order pizza

instead of marinating your ribeye.

Playing the dating game is like wandering

through the desert without water

and drinking from every cactus

until enough barbs poke through your skin

that you consider asking out your acupuncturist.

 

Personally, I would rather have a sunny disposition

than a hunny, pot to piss in,

and a golden retriever

sprinting circles behind my white

picket fence. Let me whore myself

around the city and drench my clothes in kerosene

so I can burn like fifteen suns and rise again

in Phoenix.

 

I never knew vultures were nocturnal

until I began going to bars at closing time

and saw two circling a helpless gazelle

offering shots. “She’s had enough,”

The bartender says, and so have I,

so l say goodbye like a true Irishman and traverse

the boundless sand until daylight breaks

and I need to call an uber to avoid getting sunburnt.

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Dinner

Being in your forties without anyone to call

lover says that either one thing went horribly wrong

or nothing ever went right. He left

 

Before dinner even though he skipped lunch.

Lasagna is never better the next day

so you take your meal alone

like an all you can eat buffet,

but the table is still set across from you

which feels about as good as losing

by a dollar on Wheel of Fortune.

 

After dinner the television buzzes against silence

and you never expected you’d turn to Alex Trebek for comfort

or that the Final Jeopardy melody

would have more resonance than

“Here Comes the Bride”.

Brunch

I love my baby

I want to wrap around her like a boa

constrictor and squeeze air from her lungs

just so I have an excuse to give her mouth to mouth

 

My baby loves me too

She’s got thighs as smooth as stainless steel

and her eyes are pools of radioactive waste

Don’t get too close

 

To my baby –

You are the asparagus next to my eggs benedict

I want your hollandaise every holiday

not just Mother’s Day, which is like any other day

unless you become one

with me at the altar, dressed in eggshell

walking lightly to the airport

before we leave for Tel-Aviv.

Breakfast

If I’ve learned anything

from my grandfather it’s

that narcissism is

genetic and drinking

at breakfast comes out of

necessity rather

than from celebration.

He and my mom don’t get

along but they look more

alike than his other

daughters and they both love

to garden so much they

will dig up each other’s

roses just to win an

an imaginary

flower competition.

I look more like my dad

and lack the same flair for

horticulture but on

Saturday at Green Eggs

I had bacon, buttered

toast and a mimosa,

which experts believe is

the first step towards taking

a dozen more later.

An Observation from a Walk Towards Kensington

I thought I saw a syringe sunbathing on the grass

adjacent to a pair of cauterized spoons

but the syringe was a magic marker

and the spoons were purple and

plastic. Suddenly I am using

 

cement on 5th and Berks as a canvas

pretending I’m back on Shore Road

gripping pepto-pink chalk

with my mother by my side

teaching me the alphabet.

 

Everyone is chasing something,

whether Quetzal and Wheezie or

smiles that didn’t survive past the late-90s

polaroids found in family photo albums. 

Days like those headed west with the sun.

 

Grey clouds have devoured the landscape,

wind is whipping dirt into my eyes and while

I can’t change the sky from being overcast,

if you pass me that piece of orange chalk

we can add some sunshine to the sidewalk.