My Old Man, He Still Got It

Sometimes, my old man show me how
he still got it. Man need a faucet, broken part,
calls the faucet maker, a man of the people,
my old man, say that he need a part
get me that part for free, he say, what
can you do? My wife, he say to the man
on the phone, don't want this faucet.
She tell me to get a new one, and now it's
broken. How can I tell my wife that I'm about
to spend money to fix a faucet
she don't even want? So what
can you do? he ask. So the man put my
old man on hold, the man talk to his
superior and gets the okay, with
a condition: my old man, he pay
the shipping. Do you have
a problem with that? the man
ask of my old man. Why would I?
my old man say back. My old man tell
the man that he would consider a faucet
a faucet a faucet one he would buy even
if he didn't get parts for free because of
his wife which was a lie. His wife is not
a lie but the faucet is a faucet is a lie.

And we talk more these days, and I ask
him for advice more these days for I am
in a crisis of customer service and I am
in my job like he is in his job and sometimes
I just need to hear from my old man that
I am okay in all of that and that he is okay
with that and with me and I am okay with
him for the sake of advice and being the man
on the phone with my old man rather than
being just the man on the phone.

before the storm

snap of deadbolt
creak or wooden frame
splits, small splits
peels away stretches
spring out and back
crack of frame upon
frame pine needles
steel catwalk to
edge of cold cold
snow falls gradual
bleaches cold
cold ground

clank scrape batter
goes a plow again
st sidewalk curbs
telephone poles bisect
tangerines on canvas
blank arctic moths
collect like waves
in and out of beam

the rats are out
scampering slipping
in the hull
in the rations
of our cold cold
airship lofting up up
and away from time
and place and isn’t
it just a place
but for the cold
cold
cold

Light Up Night

Riding the train from Tower City,
our feet rest in a pile of unprepared
farina like footprints in sand.
‘This is where I carried you,’
I say, and she smiles.

Front seat, rear car, a window to the right,
a window dead ahead. Reflection
of us – scarved, gloved, overcoated,
your head resting on my shoulder,
my arm across the back of seat.

Rickety train, low frequency of clangs
and pops, like holding your nose
underwater and trying to exhale.
Some cars are louder than others.
This one is not quiet.
Not so much.

Alexandra tells me that the trains
in Japan are better.
She does not elaborate.
‘Things are better in Japan,’
she says as we pass the mills.
A flame, a plume atop a stack
standing vigil over Industry.

Closing my eyes, I consider
The Notion of Japan – going there.
Hassler, at Kent, he did it.
Wrote a book about it. Or two.
Ohio Poet of the Year.
I could do that. Not so much
the poetry but maybe the books.
Fish out of water short stories
Times 10 over 125 pages.

The train shudders to a halt.
I open my eyes. Too dark
to make out anything
but graffiti under the bridge.
Alex asks where we are;
Almost home?
Judging by the artwork:
‘East 105. Ours is next.’

The Jacket of Leaves

Still hanging in my closet,
between a tropical shirt and snow pants
is the jacket of leaves.
Its colors have faded,
only the thread and stems remain,
remnants of a grand idea
to wrap ourselves in decay
from September until December.

You call me one morning,
awake me from a dead sleep to say,
that the leaves are changing again.
That you would buy the spool
if I would pick the fabric.

The memory swallows me,
of last year’s exchanges
outside the English building.
Brisk mornings surround us,
pulling on our cigarettes,
looking into the trees, wondering.

I laugh, the red ones are best,
though yellow works too.
We envision the jacket
as a sunset in motion,
a streaking flare through fall.
Passersby will brim with envy.
They are green. We are red.

This is October; umbrage hangs heavy.
The air nibbles at dusk and bites at
leaves and night falling.
Trees expend the equinox
smoldering in fire pits.

You wear Autumn over your shoulders,
your leaf jacket glows like hot coals
until the falling foliage becomes falling snow.
The setting sun fades to brown,
disintegrates in the wind,
leaving only stems and thread.

Chicago Bar Story*

I like you.
You got intensity my friend.
This guy I don’t know so much about.
He wears a ball shirt.
Don’t wear no fuckin’ ball shirt.
What’s your shirt say, what is that?
Baltimore Orioles?
Don’t wear no Baltimore shirt.
Wear a Cubs shirt.
You look like you’re fucking twelve years old.
I like your shirt.
The Who, who the fuck are you, right?
You got nice teeth.
He’s a got nice smile, don’t he?
Get a beer, a light beer.
Did I stutter, did I fuckin’ stutter?
Get a fuckin’ light beer.
Guinness, huh?
I like your class.
I like you.
I don’t know so much about this guy.
He smiles too much.
I just wanna let you know, when shit goes down, the Quinnster’s gotcha back.
You wanna make $500?
I was a ringer.
Do you know what the fuck that is?
A fuckin’ ringer?
I like you.
You square go?
I’ll take anyone in this bar.
See that guy?
I’m gonna cut that guy with a fuckin’ switchblade.
You Ohio boys, you smoke pot?
Fuckin’ roll me one then.
Yeah that’s right, roll me a pinner.
I like you.
You got intensity, my friend.
Remember, when shit goes down, Quinnster’s gotcha back.
I’m a mover
I’m in the Union
I make $35 an hour
Hard work in this town
I was Golden Gloves
See that, rock hard
I’m gonna cut you with a switchblade
You got intensity
You gonna get the pussy with that
I like you.

*This poem was an assignment from a Poetry class I took in college: write in the voice of another. It is about a man I met in a Chicago dive about a year ago. Many stories linger about this conversation with Rich Quinn, or the Quinnster, as he became known. At some point later this month, I'll try to put together a thorough retelling of that tale. Stay tuned!

Journal Excerpt

9/28/06

I am 22.
I am only 22 once.
I am irresponsible.
I am artistic.
I am goal-oriented.
I am a baby.
I am messy.
I tend to forget things.
I tend to forget people.
I ignore problems until they go away.
I have confrontational issues.
I am working on it.
It is one of my goals.
I love making radio.
I have been distracted lately.
She is beautiful though.
I need to focus.
This will come.
I am also becoming better at lying.
To myself and others.

--Done, in part, as a response to a poem by Charles Parsons.