There’s a turdlet in my toilet bowl.

It startles me when I see it in the toilet bowl as I reach down to unzip my fly.

Small and round, it must have calved off a larger turd right after I took a dump this afternoon.

I can almost see it now, slowly making its way back up the sewer tubes, fighting the toilet water after I tried to flush it down, yearning for one last good bye.

And what do I do? How do I respond? I piss on it and flush it down again.

Such is life when you’re nothing but a smallish piece of shit.

Goodbye, turdlet. It was good seeing you again.

Not really.

Yesterday in Jack Kerouac Alley, you laughed at me for taking pictures
because we’re no tourists.
When you’re old, you may want these snapshots:
you coming out of the bookstore to lean for a moment against a blue-washed
wall, your sunbleached smirk  and those kaleidoscope murals
telling revolutionary tales to pasta-stuffed trolley enthusiasts.
Daytime North Beach is a summer lightning storm,
heavy with color and the ghosts of poets who didn’t mind
taking up a seat made of concrete. When that very old man
came into Vesuvio, well dressed, spit-shouting “I’m not an elephant!
I’m not an animal! I’m a human being!” he was greeted
with long hugs and free orange juice by the barkeeps.
We wondered to each other who he was, decided that, yes,
he must be someone.
I’ll keep the pictures.
I’ll look at them now and remember that day,
because when I went upstairs to use the bathroom I peeped
down through the window and caught that old man
walking away down the alley in his tailored suit,
hands in his pockets, not stumbling,
just this very slow and careful side of kilter.
I thought that when he hit Grant Ave he may just disappear,
but I was a little drunk you know,
and I’ll keep the pictures if you don’t mind, because for a second
all of this felt like a very long time ago.

23.
HAY, Human Cannonball!
Pittsburgh to Lebanon, LeBron?
No? Cleveland to Miami!
The USSA, an O-Men?
An omen of reputation to
The graveyard, Kuntz.
Weber fires the Sweet Loaf, James,
Going on 22.
Lost one.

Friday night means uncles and card games, a haze of cigarette
smoke in the living room, and she the center,
the warm and surrounded, lifting a finger wordless
like a baby to touch the smooth sky-colored stone that hangs
from Mama’s neck.

In the kitchen, she drinks from the bottle with the brown,
the one that makes her bedroom spin like a ferris wheel
when she closes her eyes.

Emo Pants,
sweaty unattractive
gawd-awful because nothing else is clean.
exercise, forced like a monkey into a space suit.
I’m seeing stars. Explosions of orange and waves of yellow.
Pussyfooted– I am careful, as if the spill of the heavens
might stain these pants I am made to wear.

Come, my beautiful Aubrey,
Sharpen your wits, get your pencil ready;
Have you a sense of humor?  Have you a taste for laughter?  Evil hag!  O Evil hag!

For time moves ever forward without guile,
We must march into the future, expose ourselves to danger,
You, most heavenly of women, to delight us with your smile.  Evil hag!  O Evil hag!

Something doesn’t want them here
and yet they come,
ignoring the rusted tractors
and broken machinery
of their predecessors.

The cross is on me again tonight
I bear it in the darkness
its arms pin me down
its breath cools my skin
it possesses an immense need
it demands all of me
trembling as I wait for penetration
nailed to the spot as it were
with a hole on the inside
that can barely be contained
and a hole on the outside
that’s aching to be filled

On a beautiful day
in a lifetime of beautiful days
he stands at the summit
and surveys his surroundings.
Paralyzed by fear and shame
he climbed the mountain just the same
with each step, joy abounding.

sunless morning
watch the rain fall
the silver maple branches
reach out
their thin ethereal phalanges
to grasp
the liquid pearls
and cradle
the droplets
that cling
ever so gently
before letting go
unattached

I promise to rip off the scabs daily
and probe the tender parts,
rub salt in them,
infect them with lint and grit,
bear them with pride,
savor the pain
as a constant reminder
that our small battle has been lost.

Chunky boy/skinny jeans,
Would that thou remained twain.
Physique d’anjou,
It is true—
Too much middle parts weight gain.

Had your hipster credo
Demanded a Speedo,
Would thou have thought it insane
To prance around,
Let your middle abound—
A ship on the Bounding Main?

Can you even remember
a time when it still seemed strange -
the hard flesh that was not your own,
the unfamiliar rhythms,
the pounding in your head and elsewhere?

Awakening from fever dreams
of strong men who would bend you to their will.
Crying for arms that would hold you
even as you ran to any embrace.

Eyes sparkling, filled with mirth and hidden secrets
Treasures lay behind them, a store of wealth in dreams

A quick impish grin for the crowd as they wait in anticipation
For the tales and melodies that flow forth like quicksilver

He stands tall and straight, pick poised at the strings
Guitar at the ready to deliver anything you want to hear
It’s all there, waiting in his mind

The reflection in the mirror is a face I’ve never seen before.
Gone too long, can’t remember what it was that I’d been looking for,
Seems like I’ve been down so many roads,
Been on so many searches, left empty with too many questions unanswered.

I’ve strayed too far and seen too much to go back to the life I’d known before,
Can I ever find my home?