Tantrum


seven years old
and in dire need
of that
Teenaged
Mutant
Ninja
Turtles
action
figure
staring
from the
K-Mart
rack
a rare
commodity
that
would
distract
the boredom
of my restless
afternoons
barricaded
in my room
 
The answer
from mother
was no,
and I protested
with fists to the
linoleum tiles
mouth foaming
enraged
 
“I hate my mother”
I shouted to
all that would
listen
jumping
up and down
the Velcro
in my shoes
scratching
electricity
with every
angry stomp
 
she didn’t hit me
she didn’t yell
she just waited
 
and has told
this story
to every girlfriend
I’ve ever had


Originally Appeared in Zygote in My Coffee


We’ll See


those are the words
my mother told me
when I asked her
if I would grow up
to be president
of the united states

they were the same words
she spoke when I
asked her if it was
a good idea
to get married

the same phrase
she uttered
when I asked if
I was going to
earn a doctorate
in English literature

again, when I asked
if it was a good idea
to trade lithium
for Phenobarbital 
tablets while balancing
myself naked on
the diving board
over our empty
swimming pool,
screaming at the
sun and wondering
if I might crack my
skull:

“we’ll see”


Originally Appeared in Emerge Literary Journal


The Batmobile Lost Its Wheels & the Joker Got Away


that's what it said on my t shirt
next to Bart Simpson's spiked head,
my hair parted by the school nurse
with her own spit and a comb infested
with lice, my attempted smile a frown
over crooked teeth devastated from 
chewing on junk food that left me 
without a jawline or a chin in a pile
of baby fat that my mother framed 
in gold with the word "Hero," a 
reference to the Mariah Carey song 
she always tried to play for me in the 
car in order to inspire me to rise above 
school bullies, but I always pulled the 
tape out of the stereo, noting how 
corny that song was with the same
sneer frozen in time by a hungover 
photographer that will probably 
outlive me and be placed on display 
at my funeral where Mariah Carey 
will sing  "Jingle Bells, Batman Smells" 
as I look out at the mourners in that 
red t shirt that we donated to charity
all those years ago when it no longer
fit and I still had my whole ugly life 
ahead of me.

Originally Appeared in BIG HAMMER



Playing Along to the Weird Music


he watched races and old science shows in the dark 
of his living room, attired in swim trunks and a big 
and tall plaid shirt still crinkling from its flat plastic 
wrapping, every single window shade pulled down,
hiding from the sun and everyone else since my
grandmother dragged her luggage out the front door
decades earlier.    

he loved jazz and bebop; it would drool from
a little fuzzy radio that he would adjust until he vaporized 
an orchestra of static imposters trying to
jam behind Chet Baker.  he did not allow me to fiddle with
the strange assortment of old engine parts that covered 
his living room carpet, but he always let me play with 
the distracting fleet of model cars and airplanes so 
that he could set to work on building mini speed demons 
for Sunday morning desert races, the only time he ever 
bothered to wear pants.

one afternoon, Labyrinth starring David Bowie came on; 
I sat on his lap and we watched Bowie steal infants and 
croon space grooves with freakish cousins of the Muppets.  
I could feel his gut tense and move up and down with laughter
and his heart sounded like a Gene Krupa drum beat that told
me he was not haunted by that same old lifetime of disappointment 
but that he was as fresh and wide eyed as that same silly 
depression-era kid high on model airplane glue and still 
passionately daydreaming his way out of the labyrinths he had 
built around himself.     
    
Originally Appeared in Chaffey Review



Kindergarten Music 


our teacher played gentle, friendly songs
on his beat up old acoustic Les Paul
while the other kids strummed along on
their air guitars,
I grooved on air piano
pretending I was Ray Charles 
in those Diet Pepsi commercials
surrounded by a trio of supermodels
up in the clouds
not in this hall of urine, bloody noses
confusion and vomit
as I quietly sang the blues
of my missing Pee Wee Herman trapper keeper
that disappeared after show and tell
Cowboy Curtis, Miss Yvonne and the 
King of Cartoons
on a flat mural of explosive crayon pastels
never to be seen again
as I pound it out on the keys like 
an old boogie woogie killer
waiting to drown my sorrows
in Capri Sun and Elmer's glue
that the adults screamed at us
not to eat as I chewed and 
swallowed defiantly

​
Originally Appeared in American Mustard