Unlicensed Love
Pay seven hundred
per month for health insurance
and act like it’s fine.
You and I worry
Hotel California is
just about marriage.
Pay seven hundred
per month for health insurance
and act like it’s fine.
You and I worry
Hotel California is
just about marriage.
Someday, I’ll start over,
anonymous, in a new city,
where the past doesn’t cling
like a drowned man’s suit.
Just me un-selfed, unburdened,
free to sip exotic cocktails
from the patio of a high-rise
with a forever breeze,
by moonlight reading
over the shoulders of waves
as they write and revise
the beach.
One set of grandparents settled
on the north side of the Cumberland,
which had bus service and a Dairy Queen,
the other was rural & plotted with pig
& chicken farms. To get from one grandparent’s
place to the other we boarded
a six-car flatbed ferry that skimmed
the turbid water like a low-flying hawk.
The farmhouse was weather-beaten & had little
natural light except in the duck-yellow kitchen
where I loved to sit and shell peas. When no one
was paying attention, I loved to sneak
through the cedar drawers and black lacquered
jewelry box in the spare bedroom. Once I found a stack
of girlie magazines — Rascal, Nugget,
Monseir — & I stole one of them. Rolled it up
mail-box style & snuck it inside the side pocket
of my pink leather overnight bag.
As we travel the night ferry back, my eight-year-old
heart knocks like a ball-peen hammer. I feel the first
pollinated bloom of sex. A thrill! But within minutes,
I believe I have sinned. I stay up past midnight,
decide to crawl out of the window screen,
gently so there’s no sound of peeling paint.
Under moonlight I will trail to the riverbank
& with the girlie rags in a black plastic bag,
I decide to dog-paddle the half-mile across the river.
I know I’ll never make it. When I’m found out, my dad
will surely whip me with his leather brush. Worse,
my big sister will make fun of me for the rest of my life.
I’ve heard stories of drowning from the Cumberland’s
undertow. My shame swirls into the muddy currents
as moonlight flickers through clouds.
First he must find it
out in the haystack – a straw
which might break his back.
He fingers the sunburn blisters
on the ridge of his balding scalp.
Looses another button on his shirt
so the absent wind can waft his chest.
Nibbles at the salty jerky and flips
around the freezer bag with bottled water,
a granola bar, some tube of fruity gel.
Melting into the bench in front
of the church that gave him the sack,
he watches the sun rise like an angry god.
My thoughts drive my conversations
A testament to situations
We find ourselves in the spring
Worried about the littlest thing
A need to make the words inside
Force fed quips
Tongue tied
Gazes turn
No pride
Take my danger by your side
Daggers thrown
But never lied
Heartbeat into suicide
Complete the PHQ-9
Utilize our hotline
It’s an easy activation switch
Purely romantic comic glitch
Put your Easter egg
In a song
Predicting past is never wrong
Look ahead but not below
The present runs much too slow
Needles clink on the clock
Prescription permanently out of stock
the rolling showed devotion-
cries of delirious
fury
fell into ‘the faith’
his theory of taking
two and two
a line of blue silk-
less than those who
lived
the sound which darkness
passes into-
pushing north
many had-
and had
still in detailed time
but he finds their heart
in cages
