My Night With Just That Girl

Ally was a pretty girl with a sexy body. It was her legs and butt that really did it for me and for most other men. Her face was soft and her cheekbones were nicely sculpted its true but there was a rural look to her, something just off the farm riding in the back of a pick-up truck to the river to dig for worms. Her pouted, welcoming lips parted when she smiled to reveal large, bucked teeth parted down the middle by a considerable gap. Continue reading

writing in bars

at the bar you will often find me
reading, or writing
my nose in a book
talking to no one but the staff

I may get approached by strangers
happy about-the-towners who want to know:
“Why are you reading in a bar on Saturday night?”

because it keeps me straight
because I fear that without my work
or the work of another in which to delve
I will be nothing more than another drunk

another patron, another mindless partier
trying to impress, entertain, flatter or score
just another person – a member of the crowd
which has always been my greatest fear

reading and writing keeps me connected
keeps me in touch with
that which sets me apart
that which I cannot lose

if nothing else writing distracts me
fools me into believing I am separate
above and beyond common concern
and reality, and this oh so silly game


I’m good at relationships
the trouble is
I have very little interest in such things –
being “attached”, “together”, “hitched”

it’s nice, has its advantages;
the companionship, the sex,
someone around to help me shop wisely,
console me, reassure me, stroke my ego

probably the thing I miss the most
are the breakfasts

memories of waking to the sound
of coffee beans being ground
the scent of eggs and bacon
wafting through the apartment

I would breathe deeply, smile,
and nuzzle into the pillow, and wait
then she would enter, cup of coffee in hand
a kiss good morning, and I welcomed the day

like I say, I have little interest in commitment
but if a woman promises me a good breakfast
I may stick around for a day
or two

lovely teeth

the woman who talks to me
at the bar tonight
her teeth are beautiful
straight, pearly tiles of ivory
the light makes them shine
I tell her so
her smile becomes wider
and my heart flutters
she is a project manager
(I don’t know what that means)
she plays tennis and piano
she likes that I have passion
she has very lovely teeth
I am in love for a moment
then I am alone again


the birds nest outside my window
the babies are getting bigger
I wake up to their cries
as mother flies in mouthfulls
worms and bugs
gobbled up by the hungry devils
I spend hours watching them
chirping and eating
one day soon they’ll fly
I wonder
will they go away and never return?
would they really do that to mother?
would they do that to me?

my stupid, drunk face

I awaken to pain
the room slowly tips and spins
my pants are off
I’m in my own bed, at least

I call to my roommate
“Jane,” I say, “why does my face hurt?”
she answers from the other room
“Because you’re a drunk asshole!”
maybe I am

Jane enters the doorframe
stands, hands on hips
a small mirror in her hand
I groan, “I don’t remember
anything after I switched to vodka”

she shakes her head
approaches, thrusts out the mirror
my face is a mess
a scraping wound by my eye
a smaller gash on my chin
my ear lobe is bloody

I look down, then
my hands, my knees
more wounds
like I was dragged behind a car
but I probably just fell
on my stupid, drunk face

“What happened?” I ask Jane
“You fell,” she says, “on your
stupid, drunk face.”
I guessed correctly
“I didn’t sleep until 6 a.m.
because I had to tend your wounds.”

I apologize
I’m sorry for falling
I’m sorry for being an asshole
I’m sorry for bleeding

“Do you remember crying?”
she asks
I am glad that I do not

this is the second time
vodka has assaulted me
this month
left me wounded and wailing
I would say I’m quitting the drink
but I’m not
and I won’t lie to myself
about that