Deadly Daddy (Fuck You Arthur Morgan III)

He is charged with
Killing his two year old
Daughter
And leaving her
In a park creek
Still strapped into her
Car seat.

He had picked the child up
From her mother’s house
In Lakehurst
About twenty miles
South of the park
Where she was found.

What happened
Within twenty miles
Is a hard thing to think about.

Windows down
Radio
Tuned to daddy’s
Favorite station
The sun breaking through
The shapes of clouds
The gentle movement
Of the car
As it navigated through mild traffic.

Outside of the car
The leaves were falling.

There was a clean calm
In the park around them.

They were alone.

Was daddy comforting
There on the bridge?

Did he sweet talk her
As he tied the car jack
To the back of her car seat?

Or did she see madness
In daddy’s eyes
As he lifted her up
Onto the concrete railing
Throwing her out into the autumn air
To fall with the colored leaves
Into the cold dark water below

Not even a kiss goodbye.

Mr. Rosecea And The Christmas Miracle

His whole head was red
And his wife just made it redder.

His blood pressure was at
It’s tipping point
As soon as they blew in through the door
With the biting cold December air.

You didn’t have to know them
In the slightest
To feel the hatred
That they shared for each other.

So thick it was
That you could cut through it
With a chilled dull butter knife
Bought at a second hand yard sale
For a dime.

It was two nights
Before Christmas.

“C’mon! Hurry up!”
He venomed out immediately
Like a poisonous insect.

“I don’t know why you drag me out to places like this. You know I can’t stand shopping!”

He went over to the nearest chair
And plunked down in it
Brooding.

There he would remain.

At this late stage of their lives
It was apparent that
They lived solely
To make each other as miserable as possible.

“God what a loud ugly sonuvabitch bastard!”
She told a stranger
Within earshot
Out of habit.

“He makes my life unbearable.”

She purposely took her time
Looking through merchandise
She had no intention of buying
Getting a charge inside
Because she knew that
Every minute that went by
Was really setting him off.

“C’mon Lois! Let’s get out of here!!!”
He yelled across the floor
Giving a good god-damn who could hear him.

He was breathing heavily
Through the overgrowth of black unkempt jungle hair
Packed in his nostrils.

He
So long ago
Gave up caring about his appearance.
He no longer gave a shit.

He resigned to the fact
That even if he looked like Brad Pitt
She was just an evil bitch
Pushing his buttons.

She was definitely no Angelina Jolie.

“I’m looking!”
She dug in nastily
Slowly...

Slowly killing time.

The veins in his face
Flowed like purple lava
His nose blooming bloodshot
Reaching it’s game-over point.

He took a quick hit on a flask
He had hidden
While no one was looking.

“Lois! I mean it! C’mon and let’s go! I don’t want to be here! This is pointless! You’re
killing me over here!”
He yelled to no one in particular.

In slow motion
He swayed erringly
Into a large glass display
Behind him
Crashing it to the floor in a loud
Unnerving explosion.

The sound was so sudden and sharp
That it caught him off guard
And he fell to the ground
Holding his chest.

His bright red body lay on the polished white floor
As employees and customers
And an embarrassed Lois
Came running over to see if he was okay.

He lay there
Gasping
Like a dry-docked fish.

“Lord, if you were a merciful god, you would take me right now!”
He bellowed into the air
Above him.

But in his heart
He knew he was doomed
To live out the rest of his existence
On this Earth
In pain and misery.

He knew of nothing else.

With that thought in mind
He slipped into comfort and joy
As he lay on the hard floor
Listening to the harrowing methed up version of
‘Jingle Bells’
By Barbara Streisand
Playing over the store’s speakers
Loudly.

The red and green of the seasonal merchandising
Within his vision
Turned white.

Lapsang Souchong

Introduction: While The Pot Is Coming To A Rolling Boil

Lapsang Souchong is
A black tea smoked over a pine fire
From the Fujian Province in China
Originating from the Qing era.

A rare tea and very expensive.

It is not for everyone
As it is an acquired taste.

Dense and sticky like Moroccan Tar
It expands in your lungs
With an ember-spicy
Resinous
Vapour.

If a black tea could get you high
This is it
Look no further.

This tea makes me purr...



Chapter One: The Pour

I pour it English.

The pot held unusually high
To a Westerner.

The boiling water
Pouring like Salto Angel Falls
Into the basin of a large teacup
Cascading into
Swirling whirlpools
Eddying to the porcelain rims.

The rich black leaves
React
And expand
Releasing over several deep breaths
A nectar the color of a fine brandy.



Chapter Two: The Cupping

The bowl of the teacup
Warms both hands
As the bouquet from the hearth
Of a fireplace
Several hundred years old

Saturated in ghosts and history

Steams up sultry
Thick and muggy
Like the air of an exotic brothel.

And to the ears
The gift of the eight sounds
Or tones...

Silk, bamboo, wood, stone, metal, clay, gourd and hide.



Chapter Three: The Drink

The warm liquid
Expands within
Running through my body
As wild horses.

The Qi 氣
Of the tea
Pleasantly
Circulating through veins
In a low rumble
A subtle hum.

Opiates tingling
The concubine’s touch
The mystic’s blessing.

The scope of nature
And the universe
Scattered like the stars
Resting in the bottom
Of emptied
Stained porcelain.

Mouse Turds

I’ve recently been finding
Mouse turds
In the kitchen.

For a little while
It got pretty hectic
And I swore
I was gonna get traps.

And then it stopped.

The fuckers were fucking with me.

My old cat
Which I’m sure kept them away
Even though she was deaf and frail
Just gave up her sixteenth life
And went to the great beyond.

She was 23+ years old.

The turds are back.

I’ll be the first one to admit
That I have intentions
But my memory ain’t so good.

So for a few weeks now
I’ve been meaning to get traps
But I’m buying fish
Or milk
American cheese for my son
Chai for my daughter
Garbage bags
Toilet paper
More friggin’ milk...

But I forgot the traps.

I’ve heard him foraging before.

The kitchen is directly below my bedroom.

But last night it got bad.

That sonuvabitch
Sounded like he weighed
Several pounds.

I could hear him moving furniture around.

Opening and closing doors.

I could hear him mutter to himself
Bitching about what there was
For him to eat.

“Fuck that lazy-ass muthafucka upstairs. I’m eating the good stuff!”

And then I could hear him chewing extra loudly
Just to piss me off.

I picked up my 1911 off of the nightstand
The Mother Of Pearl handle
Smooth in my hand
And wiggled into some
Pajama bottoms.

I thought I crept downstairs quietly
Trying to catch him off-guard.

Nothing.

Furniture was all in place.

No open bags of grain
Spilled all over the kitchen floor.

No doors opened.

No turds...

I put the safety back on
And went upstairs
Crawling under the covers
And fell asleep.

In the morning
When I went downstairs
To make coffee
And get my son ready for school

I’ll be damned if there wasn’t a bunch of mouse turds.

I scribbled down on a piece of scrap paper
“Mouse Traps”
“Kill The Fuckers”

This time I meant business.

Public Education (Sixth Grade)

My son:

“Dad. I farted so much on command today at school! It was awesome!”

Me:

“Wow J. Did your teacher give you extra credit?”

My son’s response:

“NO! But she should’ve...”

Me:

“Remember what we talked about the other day? You need to be an advocate for
yourself when you do good work. Next time speak up!”

House Fire (Burning The Past)

Today we watched a house burn together.

She used to live on the first floor
In an apartment there.

We had split up
Long before then.
She lived there
With her boyfriend
At the time.

And now the top two floors
Were on fire
Flames darting in the windows
As rolling black clouds
Vented up into the
Rainy December sky.

Five days before Christmas.

I watched her as she spoke to the girl
That lived in the upstairs apartment.

She told me later
That the same girl resided upstairs
When she had lived there.

The girl was sobbing as she
Watched her present life
Ablaze
Being fought with forceful water
From a dozen fire engines.

My ex’s life had spun out of control
Centrifugal
Even before she lived in this apartment.

While she lived with me.

The eye of the storm continued to worsen
With each move
While she lived here
And then the next
And the next
And the next...
Until her life had burned up
Unrecognizable.

I tried to get a read on her face
About how she felt
Or what she was thinking
As we stood on the sidewalk
Half a block up
From the fire.

It was like I was blind.

Still.

Mattress

Sometime
In the dark
Upon the mattress
Set in place
On the wooden floor

When
A larger percent
Of the city outside
Was quieter
And the others in the building
Were asleep

She made me laugh out loud.

We giggled and cackled together
Until it became unstoppable
So ridiculous
That we only need to look
In the other’s direction
Or hear the other person
Trying to stifle
A piece of uncontrollable joy
Released
Swelling within
As we held our sides
Getting high from the oxygen
Light-headed and dizzy
Barely able to talk
Creating our own version
Of church
On a simple mattress
With colored blankets

Radiant and flushed
In the moment
Of the ideal perfection
That our religion could be.

Ships In A Bottle

The aurora sun
Rose in it’s ascent
A subtle arc
In the eastern pale cerulean
Washed out morn.

Refracting
On the thick leaden mason glass
That once held a well-aged brandy.

Bathing
Not just one
But two ships
En-route across the white-capped
Briny deep
Encased in the solarium.

The larger of the two
A square rigged galleon
Sails flying
Voyaged across the rounded bottle’s belly
Meticulously built
Finely detailed.

The second
A much smaller schooner
Crossed the harbor
Of the neck’s chamber
Sailing away from the collar
Towards the galleon
Never to gain.

What a rare beauty.

“How much?”
I asked it’s owner.

I knew it would be worth
Whatever he asked.

My breath palled out into the cold air
While I waited for his answer.

He played his cards and watched me
Inspect the treasure.

“Three Hundred.”
He returned.

There were about a dozen other
Aged bottles with boats in them
Laid out on his table
Amidst a bunch of other
Antique curios
That I would imagine
I could acquire for a lot less.

And while each one was unique
Carrying a certain theater of charm
None of them were so dramatic
As the piece in my hands.

“It’s a very special work of art.”
I acknowledged
Knowing that I couldn’t afford his price
That there wasn’t even reason
To bargain.

I settled the item
Back amongst the fleet
Taken by it’s calling
Wishing I was a little richer
Instead
Leaving
With empty hands pushed down in pockets
On that grey-blue morning.

Piss Artist

He turns off the Mahler
Playing loudly
On the turntable
When he feels the weight
Of his urine leaving his kidneys
Beginning to push down
Through his urethra.

He likes total silence when he paints.

He looks out at the canvases
Laid out before him
Primed but virgin
And he thinks of his boyhood
Pissing in the shower...

In the snow...

He made a perfect flower once
And then later on a portrait
Of a girlfriend
He had a crush on...

He wagged his dick
Working from memory and passion.

Her portrayal had depth...

Shading and everything.

It was perfect for a few moments
Until the heat from the chemistry of his urine
Started to work on the cold snow.

The loft was silent
Except for the traffic noise outside
And then...

The treble of a continual stream of his piss
As it met the canvas’s surface
Bouncing off
With a hollow sound
Like rain in a cardboard gutter.

It splashed and rolled
Finding natural channels
And subtle low-lying basins
Upon the veneer of the sizing
Prepped on the linen fibers.

When he had drained himself
Waiting for the last trickle
To fall

Which
Was like forever

He turned his attention
Back to the turntable
And decided on something a little lighter.

Something with a bit of prankster in it
He felt.

He settled on Mozart.

A bit obvious he thought

But it fit his mood
And he settled in
To Mozart’s sonatas for forte-piano and violin
While he waited for
His canvases to dry.

The F Train

He reminded me of myself
Ages ago.

I couldn’t help
But think that he was a contour of me
Riding the subway
Late at night alone
Skateboard in hand
Everything needed for daily survival
In a dirty backpack.

I watched as he talked to an older black man
Uninhibited
Streetwise education
And they got along fine.

He had a pierced nose
And stretchers in his ears

But I probably would have those too
If I was his age right now.

We took each other in
From across the subway car.

Me
In my funky clothes and jewelry
An older man
Still carrying on his life
From long ago.

Shit!
I have stories that would make his eyeballs roll back
His skin crawl
And his toes curl.

He continued to engage
The old black man
Confident
Creating his own story
Just as I had done
A long time ago.

Black Rope

“Sit down in that chair and face me.”
She commanded.
“I wanna do something for you.”

I did as she said
And sat down in the swivel chair
That was used for giving tattoos.

I turned to face her
Laying back low in the chair
Stretching my legs out.

She vanished for a moment
Returning with a coil of black rope.

“Aww shit...”
I breathed
Feeling goosebumps
Roaming over my skin.

She wore a ‘no-good’ smile
And smacked me several times
With the sable loops.

“Oh my god...”
I let escape.

She was good.

She sauntered to the other side of the room in front of me
And started grinding to the music.

In the hard-core glow of candles
She performed a slow striptease
Meticulously winding the rope around her limbs and body
Cinching it tightly around her breasts
Waist
Arms and ass
Passing the last even paired ends
With practiced precision
Between her thighs
Before offering them to me.

I pulled her into me steadily
Firmly
Feeling the soft thread tighten
Lifting her onto the balls of her feet.

She bit her lip
Gasping.

I pulled her onto my lap
And took over the show.

Echoes

I drove by her house
The other afternoon
And sensed immediately
That it was empty.

She had moved away from the river.

I didn’t have to stop the car
To peer through the windows
Or knock upon the once familiar back door
To confirm
That the charming small cottage
Was void of furniture

The rooms ready for an echo.

The vitrine would be gone
As well as it’s delicate heirloom
Silver miniatures
Carefully wrapped by hand
And packed away in boxes.

The intact skeleton of a black bear
Enshrouded in a blanket
Prepared for a journey.

The massive shrines
Of deities
Carved in sandalwood
Cast in heavy solid bronze
Moved by strong hands
Leaving shadows in their place
Upon the wooden floors.

The frail table and chairs
At which we’d share sushi and wine and organic vodka
Were dusted and polished
Swathed in packing blankets
Awaiting.

There was no longer a bed
To hide the Hitachi Magic Wand under

It too
Packed away preciously
To be used again in a new life
Away from this river.

Recycling

There we were
In the grey drizzle
Of an early afternoon
In December

Unloading
Our emptied and used
Into overflowing dumpsters and bins

The soles of our shoes
Adhering to the mud.

He was an old timer
Moving slowly
Slightly bent
Wheezing
Lifting small
Neatly wrapped parcels
From the back of his pick-up.

His red and black plaid wool coat
Bundled up around him
Under a brown leather hat
Darkening from the wet.

I jumped out of my car
Grabbing one of the bags
That I brought
And with my free hand
Picked up one of the
Butcher-tied bundles
Of newspapers
From the back of his truck
And said

“Hi.”

I returned from dumping those
And grabbed two more handfuls
Out of the rear of his truck
As he watched me.

“Young folks don’t even know what these are!”
I told him.

“My daughter doesn’t even know what a newspaper looks like.”

He looked at me.

“How the hell do you think they separate all of this stuff?”
He asked.

“I have no idea.”
I responded.

“It’s amazing to me.”
He continued.

“It’s awesome that you’re out here recycling!”

I returned to grab some more.

He read a lot of newspapers.

A dying art.

“Looks like we’re going to get rain today at some point.”
He obliged.

“It happens.”
I told him.

I emptied out the back of his truck
And then I emptied mine
All the while talking to him
In the wet
Doleful
Afternoon.

He watched me
Smiling.

He could’ve left
But he stayed for the attention.

I finished and shook his hand.

“You be sure to have yourself a nice day, rain or not.”
I told him.

“Thank you. I mean that.”
He said.

“It’s nothing at all. Nice meeting you.”
I replied.

I watched him amble up into his truck
Through my rear-view mirror.

Moments later
I was driving over the bridge
Crossing the river
Slowly
In second gear

Swallowed whole
By one of the most engagingly
Haunting fogbanks
That I have ever
Witnessed

And disappeared.