Pin, a name which the young man had unintentionally given himself, awoke exactly two minutes before his 6 a.m. alarm sounded only to look down and find his usually pristine white sheets muddied with red clay from his baseball cleats. His belly button was sore, but the sweet song still whispered in his ears. And the electricity he felt when she gazed at him across the candlelight still tickled his fingertips. He thought about Toaster; he thought about Amelia; A single tear formed as he thought of Marigold. Pin was careful to remove his shoes and calculatingly throw them onto his kitchen's tiled floor before alighting his twin bed and heading for the shower where he would once again make his transformation.
Mr. Pinneford stared into his bathroom mirror while being soothed by the buzzing of a halogen light. He tried to count his pores before carefully plucking each gray sprout from his head of black hair and placing them in a neat row onto the white sink where they would vanish. He would contemplate not brushing his teeth today, but as always, proceeded to brush and floss and feel utterly content afterward as a result of following through with this simple hygienic task. Mr. Pinneford bared his teeth with an empty smile and headed for the bedroom closet to get dressed for the day. He reached for a single pair of black leather shoes that sat neatly to the left of a large cluster of repurposed footwear. Hiking boots, climbing shoes, slippers, sneakers, flip-flops, rain boots: they had all served their purpose at one time or another but would not be needed today. He buttoned his heavily starched shirt and tucked it into his pleated black pants before clasping his belt and choosing a tie. His place of employment had done away with the formality of neckties, but Mr. Pinneford preferred them, and the simple pleasure he found in choosing which one to wear was a high point of his day.
Oct 2, 2008
Apr 23, 2007
Upon Waking
My chin presses against his chest.
I look up to his eyes knowing
that when I can't sleep in his bed
his shirt will have to do.
His sweaty palms like a slug
slide from my jaw line to my collarbone
when he holds me like I'll break
and I am pale as porcelain.
His shower smell is dandruff shampoo
a sprig of rosemary
or the color green.
For a moment
I pretend we're perfect strangers
so he can make a good first impression
by recklessly tossing out song lyrics
that he prays I'll recognize.
I swallow his words, choking them down.
They float in a sea of me
crumpled into a swing-top, blue bottle
where I keep secrets
my imagination
last kisses
and repressed memories of his morning breath.
I look up to his eyes knowing
that when I can't sleep in his bed
his shirt will have to do.
His sweaty palms like a slug
slide from my jaw line to my collarbone
when he holds me like I'll break
and I am pale as porcelain.
His shower smell is dandruff shampoo
a sprig of rosemary
or the color green.
For a moment
I pretend we're perfect strangers
so he can make a good first impression
by recklessly tossing out song lyrics
that he prays I'll recognize.
I swallow his words, choking them down.
They float in a sea of me
crumpled into a swing-top, blue bottle
where I keep secrets
my imagination
last kisses
and repressed memories of his morning breath.
Mar 13, 2007
Snuffy
Sometimes I think about my dead grandfather.
I don't remember him well
but I do know that his eyes were the color of steel
and that he looked hollow the night before he died.
Now I wonder if he sees me from the grave
when I back-date my checks
or lie to sweet boys.
My grandmother made him Catholic
so sometimes he and I nod off together in church
and take too much wine
before we sign and grin like the oldest of children
as we walk back to the pew.
I wonder if my sister wonders about him.
They didn't know each other
but I think he sees her trying to put on makeup.
And I think he sits with my grandmother
when she remembers what it was like to dance.
I don't remember him well
but I do know that his eyes were the color of steel
and that he looked hollow the night before he died.
Now I wonder if he sees me from the grave
when I back-date my checks
or lie to sweet boys.
My grandmother made him Catholic
so sometimes he and I nod off together in church
and take too much wine
before we sign and grin like the oldest of children
as we walk back to the pew.
I wonder if my sister wonders about him.
They didn't know each other
but I think he sees her trying to put on makeup.
And I think he sits with my grandmother
when she remembers what it was like to dance.
Mar 1, 2007
A Glass
A culmination of Brazilian suns sits in her glass
as ice swirls in a whirlpool of stirs,
seeping out the sides
and melting into a puddle
that could flood a thousand nights
or stain the sleeves of the careless.
Glass clinks like a hundred bangles dangling
at the end of her slender wrist.
She wears the whiskey to match her shoes.
Its glow is as orange as her grandmother's ottoman
or a West Coast see-through tan
and lights the tip of her nose
sip after sip. . .
And the drink smells of the attic
where she was once a damsel
and is rescued only by last call.
The taste makes her cringe like
an old sailor getting a fresh tattoo.
She slams the glass onto the ancient, wooden tables
"Checkmate."
And the black and white tiles swallow her
as she sinks to the ground
when the lights turn up.
as ice swirls in a whirlpool of stirs,
seeping out the sides
and melting into a puddle
that could flood a thousand nights
or stain the sleeves of the careless.
Glass clinks like a hundred bangles dangling
at the end of her slender wrist.
She wears the whiskey to match her shoes.
Its glow is as orange as her grandmother's ottoman
or a West Coast see-through tan
and lights the tip of her nose
sip after sip. . .
And the drink smells of the attic
where she was once a damsel
and is rescued only by last call.
The taste makes her cringe like
an old sailor getting a fresh tattoo.
She slams the glass onto the ancient, wooden tables
"Checkmate."
And the black and white tiles swallow her
as she sinks to the ground
when the lights turn up.
Feb 6, 2007
The Two
Two lovers sit naked in the winter,
feeding each other teaspoons of snow.
They exhale smiles
and make beds out of frozen branches
and iced blades of grass.
They mix martinis in bird nests
stirring them with swizzles of icicles.
and decorate each other’s hair with spires of a cedar,
heavy with fleshy cones and blue leaves.
White-crowned sparrows float
dangling light from their beaks,
illuminating the intimacy of the two.
The night is frozen
and sends glints of light flashing across
a blanketed substructure of crackling limbs
and soft shard winds.
The lovers make toast
with the concentrated light of a magnifying glass
and spread jam with the feather of a purple finch.
They disperse fragrant flowers of saffron to passersby,
dyeing their lips with the orange dust
from their fingertips.
Each touch creates veins of heat
that melt their thin skins of ice,
and a glow returns to their cerulean cheeks.
feeding each other teaspoons of snow.
They exhale smiles
and make beds out of frozen branches
and iced blades of grass.
They mix martinis in bird nests
stirring them with swizzles of icicles.
and decorate each other’s hair with spires of a cedar,
heavy with fleshy cones and blue leaves.
White-crowned sparrows float
dangling light from their beaks,
illuminating the intimacy of the two.
The night is frozen
and sends glints of light flashing across
a blanketed substructure of crackling limbs
and soft shard winds.
The lovers make toast
with the concentrated light of a magnifying glass
and spread jam with the feather of a purple finch.
They disperse fragrant flowers of saffron to passersby,
dyeing their lips with the orange dust
from their fingertips.
Each touch creates veins of heat
that melt their thin skins of ice,
and a glow returns to their cerulean cheeks.
Oct 25, 2006
The Chronicles of Stagger: The Beginning
I walked into the bar like I do almost every night when I’m coaxed by a coworker or a sweet boy into going out. The doors of The Stag are old and wooden. They’re smooth and shiny and impossible to pass through without looking awkward to someone who’s not accustomed to people squeezing between two tiny doors that are too stubborn to open all of the way. The doorman usually waves me in, and I get a nod from the bartender, Tim. I found out just recently that he hasn’t shaved his bushy red beard in twenty-seven years with the exception of a charity event when he shaved it to raise money. There are shuffle board players trying to squeeze past each other in order to get to the end of the table where they are sandwiched between the game and a protruding beer sign that faces the street. I never get nervous if the friends I’m supposed to meet aren’t there when I arrive because there are people who are like fixtures at the bar. There are always the cooks from the dinner rush who sit closest to the darkened kitchen. There are the hipsters who walk Main Street and come into Stag for the Black and Tans and a game of darts. There’s always the boy hoping that I might show up, and there are always the musicians, ready at any moment to hop on stage to fill in the gaps for a jam session.
Now, the bar itself is decades old and the history of its construction, destruction, and restoration can be found on the back of their menus. The barstools are old and clunky, but they still spin smoothly despite the wobble in the legs. It’s awkward to sit on the stools, facing the bartenders because your knees knock up against the front unless you’re able to spread you legs wide enough to accommodate. There are multi-colored mints and boxes of matches for everyone who wants fresh breath after they smoke. Old trinkets and pictures decorate the register, and a countdown to St. Patty’s day is always posted somewhere. If it’s not, just ask the bartender, and they’ll let you know.
Though you can find Tim bartending almost every night of the week, there are others. Patty, the day bartender, is in her sixties as far as I can tell and has shaggy short hair with a rat tail that hangs down her back. She’s an avid White Sox fan, but she’ll give the Cardinals their dues any day. She is drinking Jameson by noon and serves anyone in the vicinity of the bar with a good sense of humor the same drink after they’ve finished their Bloody Marys. Brad is another night bartender. He stands about 6’6” and is usually sporting braided pigtails and cut-off jean shorts. He has a good sense of humor with a smile to match, and you can find him there with his hair down on the nights that he’s not working. Janet is the cute bartender that all the boys flirt with and pray that they can take home, but she’s a good girl and can drink them all under the table. There are a few others, like the girl who seems bitter about everything and angry to have to pour you a drink, and there’s the other guy who can stack up to fifteen rocks glasses on top of each other and carry them around the bar without breaking a sweat.
The college kids who have moved here from out of town sometimes don’t understand the beat of Stagger. Everyone from town knows that you go there to have a good time, listen to some good tunes, trade small stories, and drink. You don’t fight, you don’t get too loud, you don’t wave down a bartender, and you don’t get sloppy. There are other places in town for that.
Now, the bar itself is decades old and the history of its construction, destruction, and restoration can be found on the back of their menus. The barstools are old and clunky, but they still spin smoothly despite the wobble in the legs. It’s awkward to sit on the stools, facing the bartenders because your knees knock up against the front unless you’re able to spread you legs wide enough to accommodate. There are multi-colored mints and boxes of matches for everyone who wants fresh breath after they smoke. Old trinkets and pictures decorate the register, and a countdown to St. Patty’s day is always posted somewhere. If it’s not, just ask the bartender, and they’ll let you know.
Though you can find Tim bartending almost every night of the week, there are others. Patty, the day bartender, is in her sixties as far as I can tell and has shaggy short hair with a rat tail that hangs down her back. She’s an avid White Sox fan, but she’ll give the Cardinals their dues any day. She is drinking Jameson by noon and serves anyone in the vicinity of the bar with a good sense of humor the same drink after they’ve finished their Bloody Marys. Brad is another night bartender. He stands about 6’6” and is usually sporting braided pigtails and cut-off jean shorts. He has a good sense of humor with a smile to match, and you can find him there with his hair down on the nights that he’s not working. Janet is the cute bartender that all the boys flirt with and pray that they can take home, but she’s a good girl and can drink them all under the table. There are a few others, like the girl who seems bitter about everything and angry to have to pour you a drink, and there’s the other guy who can stack up to fifteen rocks glasses on top of each other and carry them around the bar without breaking a sweat.
The college kids who have moved here from out of town sometimes don’t understand the beat of Stagger. Everyone from town knows that you go there to have a good time, listen to some good tunes, trade small stories, and drink. You don’t fight, you don’t get too loud, you don’t wave down a bartender, and you don’t get sloppy. There are other places in town for that.
Sep 13, 2006
Chainsmoking
This is one of my series poems. The way this one was made was by taking random observations throughout a month's time, and then, through a process of elimination and combination, I came up with this crazy thing...
*
Brick wall of smoke.
Spongy hair soaking up the stench.
It makes you cool. You look so sexy.
Vintage case. Awesome lighter.
Teary-eyed and stinging.
**
Silver or gold.
Menthol or ultra.
Regular or light.
Short or long.
Hard or soft.
***
Delicate fingers.
Lipstick filter.
Hypnotic smoke.
Wrap your lips around that.
Inhale, exhale, shallow breath.
Worst craving.
I need one.
****
I didn’t have an idea for my paper, but I did have gin and cigarettes. I wondered what he would say if he came in the door to find me chain-smoking while drinking a dirty martini in front of a blank computer screen.
*****
Worsdsworth is waiting.
Cough into a passed on book.
Splintered toothpick.
Bent, saliva straw.
******
Can I bum a square?
Am I still here, Babydoll?
You wanna go burn one?
Can I get a light?
*
Brick wall of smoke.
Spongy hair soaking up the stench.
It makes you cool. You look so sexy.
Vintage case. Awesome lighter.
Teary-eyed and stinging.
**
Silver or gold.
Menthol or ultra.
Regular or light.
Short or long.
Hard or soft.
***
Delicate fingers.
Lipstick filter.
Hypnotic smoke.
Wrap your lips around that.
Inhale, exhale, shallow breath.
Worst craving.
I need one.
****
I didn’t have an idea for my paper, but I did have gin and cigarettes. I wondered what he would say if he came in the door to find me chain-smoking while drinking a dirty martini in front of a blank computer screen.
*****
Worsdsworth is waiting.
Cough into a passed on book.
Splintered toothpick.
Bent, saliva straw.
******
Can I bum a square?
Am I still here, Babydoll?
You wanna go burn one?
Can I get a light?
Sep 5, 2006
Just a Glimpse
This is the poem I got 'The Perfect Table' thing from. I like it:
A Glimpse of the Afterlife
by Chard deNiord
I’m smoking a cigarette and having a drink
with the only woman who’s right for me.
I’m telling her a joke that isn’t that funny
but we laugh anyway as if it were, and then it is.
Ideal forms are everywhere, the chairs
on which we sit, the windows to our left
and right, our risen bodies at the perfect table.
It’s my idea of heaven to be with her on earth,
breathing the air in a smoke-filled room,
drinking tonic laced with gin, listening to the king.
The conversation rises to a deeper level.
She disagrees with me on a matter of religion,
as if religion still mattered in the afterlife,
as if there were no greater joy than to converse
with the one you love about an idea that’s impossible
to prove. I am drawn to her in direct proportion
to the differences of our opinions, ecstatic
to find our bodies have survived in heaven.
There is also time as the darkness thickens.
I retrieve her shawl from the back of her chair
and cover her shoulders which have begun to shake
in the chill of heaven. I have passed from one plane
to the next without detecting the slightest change,
except I know my body lies somewhere beneath
the dirt I walk on now as we leave the bar.
I know the greatest mercy of all is to be with the one
you love beneath a sky on which it’s written:
You’ve died ten thousand times and you’ll die again.
A Glimpse of the Afterlife
by Chard deNiord
I’m smoking a cigarette and having a drink
with the only woman who’s right for me.
I’m telling her a joke that isn’t that funny
but we laugh anyway as if it were, and then it is.
Ideal forms are everywhere, the chairs
on which we sit, the windows to our left
and right, our risen bodies at the perfect table.
It’s my idea of heaven to be with her on earth,
breathing the air in a smoke-filled room,
drinking tonic laced with gin, listening to the king.
The conversation rises to a deeper level.
She disagrees with me on a matter of religion,
as if religion still mattered in the afterlife,
as if there were no greater joy than to converse
with the one you love about an idea that’s impossible
to prove. I am drawn to her in direct proportion
to the differences of our opinions, ecstatic
to find our bodies have survived in heaven.
There is also time as the darkness thickens.
I retrieve her shawl from the back of her chair
and cover her shoulders which have begun to shake
in the chill of heaven. I have passed from one plane
to the next without detecting the slightest change,
except I know my body lies somewhere beneath
the dirt I walk on now as we leave the bar.
I know the greatest mercy of all is to be with the one
you love beneath a sky on which it’s written:
You’ve died ten thousand times and you’ll die again.
The Elevator
She decided to leave the candles lit while she went out for a cigarette. She gently closed the door behind her and stepped into the hall. The green, Berber carpet was almost too thick for her stilettos. She pushed the down button and listened to the buzz of the elevator as it climbed for her floor. It dinged, the door slid open, and she stepped inside onto the faux-marble tile. Her heels sounded great against the floor, but when she looked down she saw that her Gucci shoes were now ruined from the puddles that had bled through the leather. She pushed the button to the lobby and paused to look at her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator.
She stood there with her head slightly cocked to one side as she swiveled on the smooth pads of her shoes. The top button of her coat had finally fallen off, revealing a hint of the flimsy material of her red dress that peeked out just below her collar bone. She pulled and twisted the frayed button string between her chipped, Twinkled Pink nails and tried to remember how long it had been since her last manicure. Grazing the tip of her nose, she reached to sweep her bangs out of her eyes and could smell the stench of the last cigarette that lingered on her fingers; now the smell was in her hair.
She studied her face and tried to decide if she looked pretty when she cried even with the black lines running down her cheeks. She furrowed her carefully-plucked brows and pouted her faded, Iced Raisin lips, mocking her own expressions. She practiced shock and sadness with her eyes, reflecting upon the details of her last exploit.
Watching herself, she reached into her shallow, silken pocket and pulled out a dull, silver lighter and a bent cigarette. Her eyes shined as she held the flame to the tip. She studied how she smoked. She pulled the cigarette to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the flattened filter. She watched her chest slowly rise as she breathed in the tar and nicotine, and she studied the lift of her chin and the extension of her neck as she exhaled a haze of white smoke. Her long fingers looked especially delicate when she held the thin cigarette.
Without finishing, she tossed the cigarette with a melodramatic flick of her wrist and ground it into the tile with the sharp heel of her shoe. Smoothing the front of her coat with her hands, she pressed her palms against the wool and slid them down from her breasts to her thighs. She wiped the lines from her cheeks, blew her reflection a kiss, and turned around to step into the lobby.
She stood there with her head slightly cocked to one side as she swiveled on the smooth pads of her shoes. The top button of her coat had finally fallen off, revealing a hint of the flimsy material of her red dress that peeked out just below her collar bone. She pulled and twisted the frayed button string between her chipped, Twinkled Pink nails and tried to remember how long it had been since her last manicure. Grazing the tip of her nose, she reached to sweep her bangs out of her eyes and could smell the stench of the last cigarette that lingered on her fingers; now the smell was in her hair.
She studied her face and tried to decide if she looked pretty when she cried even with the black lines running down her cheeks. She furrowed her carefully-plucked brows and pouted her faded, Iced Raisin lips, mocking her own expressions. She practiced shock and sadness with her eyes, reflecting upon the details of her last exploit.
Watching herself, she reached into her shallow, silken pocket and pulled out a dull, silver lighter and a bent cigarette. Her eyes shined as she held the flame to the tip. She studied how she smoked. She pulled the cigarette to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the flattened filter. She watched her chest slowly rise as she breathed in the tar and nicotine, and she studied the lift of her chin and the extension of her neck as she exhaled a haze of white smoke. Her long fingers looked especially delicate when she held the thin cigarette.
Without finishing, she tossed the cigarette with a melodramatic flick of her wrist and ground it into the tile with the sharp heel of her shoe. Smoothing the front of her coat with her hands, she pressed her palms against the wool and slid them down from her breasts to her thighs. She wiped the lines from her cheeks, blew her reflection a kiss, and turned around to step into the lobby.
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