Impulse Control

Impulse Control

We met under a neon sign

at the Coyote Moon;

a rundown bar across

the street from the Ramada.

She asked me for a cigarette

and smiled as I fumbled to light it.

She carried her years well

but her eyes looked a little sad

behind the smokey blue glow.

“Are you married” she asked

and I had to think hard about

if it even mattered anymore.

“Some days more than others”

I replied. She nodded and looked away.

Our Camels burned down

and the conversation stalled,

so we moved back inside for a drink.

She drank Smirnoff straight,

and swallowed like it was pride.

I noticed the wetness on her lips

and wondered how it would mix

with my scotch as we walked out
to share my last cigarette.

“I don’t like to sleep alone”

was followed by a well-dressed

exhale of smoke. “Who does?”
I shrugged, then I kissed her

on the cheek before going back

inside to close out my tab.

SMG

Tides

Tides

We traced the shoreline
with deliberate footsteps
in the failing light.

A pointed conversation,
each solemn word lost
in the crash of the waves;

(The ebb of love
is usually measured
and unperceived;

a gradual retreat
with no regard
for the coming moon.)

and the rhythmic water
eroded all evidence
of what was, as we passed.

SMG

Practical Philosophy

Practical Philosophy

She takes Prozac with Petrone,
because it makes her feel good,
like falling for bad boys
and shoplifting pantyhose
at the A&P.

Sometimes I will lift a twenty
from the collection plate
when I am a few dollars short;
God helps those
that help themselves.

We only say we are in love
because there is no term
to describe two people
too scared to let go.

She told me that it’s only a lie
if you don’t believe it
and then asked me
if her ass looked big.

We may never find the answer
in Schopenhauer or Socrates
but that girl across the bar
looks like she could teach me
a thing or two

 

SMG

I watched the sun come up from the departures lounge at Schiphol

I watched the sun come up
from the departures lounge at Schiphol

Beer tastes different at sunrise;
maybe it's the bitterness
something like regret.

I left you crying in California
and you said you understood
as I walked through the gate.
I suppose the avalanche of clichés
finally buried your resolve.
But we both know
it wasn’t me or you; it was us.
Me in my cuckold horns
and you in your orphan rags,
both of us reading from a script
that was ill conceived and poorly written.
You held me like I was your father
the night he walked out the door
and I fucked you as if my ex
was watching from the next room.

It is 6:20 AM and I still have
some distance to travel.
I imagine you have cried yourself to sleep by now
and I am here, attempting to write a poem
about the absurdity of Humpty
trying to fix a broken tin soldier.

SMG

Angel City

Angel City

Los Angeles is a soft-core porn cliché,

all silicon enhanced titillation and come-

fuck-me pumps with no money shot.

Glamour seems so much crueler when

it’s look but don’t touch and no amount

of sunshine can warm an empty bed.

Satisfaction it seems is only for subscribers

and most of this city is access denied.

We’re all on the outside, faces pressed

against the mirrored windows, afraid

that our fifteen have mistakenly been

lost in the mail or given to someone else.

SMG

Los Angeles to New York

Los Angeles to New York

Varicose veins
scar the landscape;
reminders of rivers
long since dead.
Burnt sienna
and raw umber
scraped across
the desiccated canvas
by a laughing god
with a palette knife
and dirty brushes.

Fascinated eyes
survey the wasteland
through Boeing glass
and the relative cool
of thirty-five thousand feet.
They will find no Jews
wandering in this wilderness
only the occasional
Navajo dust trail set free
by an old pick-up truck.

SMG

Prom Night

Prom Night

Fireflies flash
in the faded autumn light
and burst in auroras
on fogged car windows.

The desire within
is oblivious to the show,
mindful only
of the steering wheel
and the finish line.

The darkness waits,
patiently, until
the lovers are sated.
Soon enough
it will invade,
like the doubt
that comes with sunrise.

SMG