Tallahassee

Tallahassee

When the hands of the clock

are flipping you off,

its face a twisted smile,

and escape to the bottle

has drowned the words

that once intoxicated you.

When lust is merely a metaphor,

love a long distance call

and your voice has turned

to autumn leaves

that crackle under foot.

That is when the night

becomes only darkness

and the call of that bottle

fills the spaces in between

the sunlight.

SMG

Sometimes there’s just no poetry and...

Sometimes there’s just no poetry

and…

you sit and watch the clock and the

steady movement of the hands slo-

wly reach  out  in search  of a drink
is  as  close  to  love as  you can  get
lost in the faces of strangers as they
pass  by  on  the  street signs speak
foreign words and  remind  you of
how far you are from home is only
a memory fading like bright colors
in the sun faints  again  at the  app-
roach of the darkness does not care
that you are alone in this room wat-
ching the hands of the clock.

SMG

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

Simplicity

Simplicity

Sunday morning--
sunlight chases tiny rabbits
across the bedroom floor,
and you are beautiful
in the shadows.

Blankets pulled overhead
keep Saturday night’s toll
at bay for the moment,
and you are enticing
in the goose down.

Newsprint smudged
fingers fetch aspirin
with sparkling water back,
and you are sexy
in the naked daylight.

I fell in love with you
on just such a morning,
3000 miles to the west,
and you were beautiful
in the retreating fog.

SMG

La Cantera

La Cantera

I remember that Friday night,
as I drove in circles, wasting rental gas,
and obsessively checking my watch.
Three hours from DC to San Antonio
plus the 5 months since you said goodbye.
I never told you how I cried and tried
to hate you, because when I saw you walk
through security 147 days dissolved,
like a sugar cube on my tongue.

And I remember Saturday night too,
after 18 holes, a delicate petite syrah
and two of the best damn steaks in Texas,
we laughed, drank XO and smoked Cohibas.
When you excused yourself for a moment,
every last man watched you catwalk out,
and then turned to me and said
“boy you’re one lucky sombitch”
I just gave them a nod and a smile,
because they had no idea how lucky I was.

*(Re-print from "Another Hotel Room")

Leaving New York

Leaving New York

Walking home, 8:20 PM,

Friday evening of another long week;

in New York we measure misery

in Fahrenheit and empty bottles.

One hundred eighty two weekends lost,

and six more to go before I wash off

this subway grime forever.

Wednesday’s snow has gone grey

and the sidewalks are a slush

puddle slalom and controlled slide.

Fresh bottle in hand, I watched

a small boy with his father in tow.

He ninja kicked his way down the sidewalk,

superhero joy on his face, oblivious

to the city and all of its hard edges.

I wonder if I’m really ready to leave.

5:30 AM, Insomnia fueled,

coffee nicotine run in snow flurries

and a razorblade wind.

Hopeful young women,

Saturday nights make-up smeared

by Sunday morning, stumble out of walk-ups

toward the subway steps.

The city spits them out,

back to Jersey and Long Island,

like gum chewed past the point of flavor.

New York is a ponzi scheme of promise,

reliant on wide eyes and fresh blood.

In the shelter of a doorway I lit my first

and watched the sun gradually burn

its way across Twenty Third Street.
I wonder if I’m really ready

for a lifetime of sunsets.

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

The Miles in Between

The Miles in Between

You fell asleep somewhere over the Atlantic,
and I watched you as Stevie Ray wept in my ear.

I couldn’t help
but think back
to that little café
on the Potomac,
you so sure
of your disinterest.

I talked around
your façade
and searched
for open windows
over glasses
of pinot grigio
and warm beer.

Afternoon showers
chased us
from the terrace
and we laughed
all the way
back to your car.

The pilot’s voice startled the moment and you shifted in your seat
before settling back down with your head on my shoulder.

I smelled your hair
and thought back
to the months
and the miles in between,
you in the District
and me hanging
by a phone line
in the San Diego sun.

There were tears
and rendezvous
to mark the time;
nibble at the distance,
until I U-Hauled my life
cross country
in 72 hours flat.

I smiled when I saw
the Potomac again
and your welcoming
kiss made the clock
spin back in my head.

The bump and screech of rubber on the Amsterdam concrete
shook the sleep from your eyes so I took your hand and pulled

the plug on Jimi’s Slight Return so I could hear you say

“I love you”

SMG