DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Completes A Crossword Puzzle

Hey.

Here's this week's poem.

A Divorced Dad Completes a Crossword Puzzle

6am in a tattered diner.  Orange, faded barstools

Sliced open decades ago by vandals, the plastic

Gnarled and pinching tight against the skin.

He’s on his fourth cup of coffee.  Eyes down,

Ballpoint pen scanning the last remaining mystery.

14 across:  “Dante’s Distraught Destination”

Nine letters. 

The silence of the diner is broken by a quartet

Of two gaggling couples, barging into a booth.

Still fresh from drinking, loudly holding conversation.

He shuts his eyes. Presses his pen into the empty pocket

Of the first box. Breathes and sifts more sugar into

The cup.  The couples prate:  Can you believe how many

Camera bags Chester has now?  I mean, honey?  Isn’t that just

Too much? /Not if I keep buying cameras/Remember, remember,

Remember when we had that tequila phase we went through where

We just couldn’t stop buying Peruvian hybrids/And now our cupboard’s so bare, you

Won’t let me work/Because you want to get a silly job like bartending.  I told him, Louise,

I told him, if he gets a bar job, there’s no way we’d see each other. Me teaching full time and all. 

Just two sleeping shapes in the same house/But think of all the free alcohol….

He watches, morbid with fascination.

Because he’s seen this horror film. He knows how time, the predictable sculptor,

Will carve them, suffer them. Sober them. 

And then, before his chin can quiver with the shared agreement of loss,

The answer, it appears:  A DARK WOOD.

Onto the page.  He slaps a twenty on the counter, an extremely generous tip for

Time, glances once more at the two merry couples, and

He walks.  He walks with no direct destination, but with purpose.

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Rides the Subway

Hey.

Here's this week's Divorced Dad Poem:

A Divorced Dad Rides the Subway

Outside. It’s always a dangerous gambit.

He’s prepared. Subway pass secured and tapping his wallet.

Each step down into the station becomes choreographed falling.

On the bottom step, a rat, previously hidden,

With its lower half pulped and savagely bleeding,

In defiance of his fatal condition,

Lunges past him towards the open air.

What do you do when you encounter your familiar?

And what happens once that kindred spirit has left you,

Most likely to fight and spit and bleed itself out for a few

Hours at most, until his tiny, determined eyes grow ossified

And the struggle ends?

He’s marinating on this worry, hands shaking as he slides the pass,

Pushes his hip between the turnstile,

And steps down onto the platform.

Thought chewing pensive upon pensive thought,

When out of the random circumstance,

A spritely  mohawked  woman in a jean jacket

Exits a newly arrived subway car,

Spies him, holds up her tattooed hand and exclaims:

High Five!

He turns, and with equal passion, slaps her hand.

He’s back in the connected, loving world.

Sidles into an open seat.

And covets that small, tender mercy of being seen.

Being known.

Hand to hand.

New Poem Series - Divorced Dad Poems -

Hey.

This new poem series came out of a weird riff brought on by a new friend, Robin Rightmyer.

He showed up to rehearsal and we started improvising a character based on how he looked - which was eerily, like a divorced dad - that mix of sadness, exhaustion, and eagerness.

And, because I'm insane, and clearly don't have enough projects to do, I thought it would make a fascinating, absurd poem series. One I'll do every Sunday.  See how a divorced dad does stuff.

Here's this week's poem:

A Divorced Dad at the Movies

He’s nodding his head to a new pop rock song when

The vice of Velcro and polystyrene slides forward,

Pinches his unkempt eyebrows.  He sighs, pries off his

Bike helmet. A flood of cool air rises from his matted scalp

And he unbuttons his wrinkled short sleeve dress shirt,

Exposing a faded Superman cotton t-shirt.  His treasure.

Extra large popcorn in tow with the trench of synthetic butter gel

Pooling at the bottom of the bag. Not enough salt.  A Diet Coke,

Extra large.   Trailers lap up the screen.  He smirks, having just conceived

The perfect pun. Delivers it, and wheels to his right to enjoy a response.

But he’s a solitary figure in an empty row.  

He forgot.  Just that second.

This was once their church.

This was once their whispered ritual.

He smiles, low and to the ground. The lights dim, and as he bites down on the inside of his cheek,

(Intentionally)

He digs into a box of candy, fingers working in rote, and with perfect ease,

Aims a hat trick of malted milk balls into his quivering mouth.

TFLN - Magic, Mundane

Hey,

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.

(717)

How the hell does my fucking boss know about the goddamn magician I fucked?

This –

This goes against some kind of code,

Right?

Magicians aren’t supposed to reveal tricks.

And, besides –

It wasn’t , it wasn’t my fault.

Jeez. I’m not some messed up skank

Spending weekends in Atlantic City,

Leaning up against every stage door,

Scanning for a man quick with his fingers,

Hungry for a little buck strange.

It was just a blind date.

Jules wasn’t wearing a cape or slathered in baby oil.

Just a tweed jacket.  We ate Ethiopian cuisine,

Talked about publishing, losing parents young.

That sudden, somber shift your jaw makes

When you realize you’re the oldest

And have to tender the load. Childhood’s over.

Never got to share that unexpected pain with someone before.

He heard me. Not just rote, empty pity. He had walked that cruel road. 

And soon, we were at his place, two hungry, complementary shapes.

And that night, I woke to pee,

Looked around, saw the velour costumes,the cages of rabbits, white turtle doves.

The kerosene torches, the thin, wobbly swords, the wooden devices meant to bind

Another woman, cut in her two,

And winch her whole. Reborn.  And  I’ll admit.  I wanted that.

For a moment. To be his weirder half.

But the world looks unkindly upon the strange.   

Best to be ordinary. Show no colors. Tell no stories.

I collected my clothes.

I held my breath.

Tried not to sob.

And left.

Finalists for new headshots

All photography by LSOWA Photography
http://www.lsowaphotography.com/

THEATRICAL

COMMERCIAL

WILD CARD
(for children's theatre, creeper roles, etc)

We've Got To Try - First Draft of New Song (for K.K. for me)

Hey.

I'm done with regret.

I look at my changing body, getting smaller and smaller.

I examine my mental health, feeling more malleable than ages. Granted, my normal is never gonna be close to most people's normal. I'm a deeply empathic soul.  But, while stressors may affect me time to time,  I feel the urge to help others again, and doing so gives me grace and cheer.

And this song, while specifically for K.K, it's also for me. It's for the world. It's a sign that I'm happy. I'm ready to be willing to be happy.  To take risks in order to find some new, uncharted levels of happy.

And yes, things went with K.K. pretty much like I thought they would. But the song still rings true. It's a song of hope, for both of us.  That we'll find someone caring and right that will curl us with shared joy.

I know I'm not easy. I know that I'm super intense. I know that 999 out of a 1000 people are gonna be turned off by me or only want me in teeny tiny doses. 

But I've got to try.

Here we go!

Lyrics

first verse

ive got my heart up
youve got your guard up
i know that healing
ive been reeling
spent these past three years feeling
mighty unappealing
brought up poor
never self same sure
but im growing kind
youve got your stories
wanna hear your stories
favorite ice cream flavor
speak ill savor
talk about your tattoos
and your next door neighbor
lets make time
for a dinner date im
rather fond of your mind

chorus
you told me on the train
youre grabbing fistfuls of happy
want to join you as you play
share in your secret smile
as you caper and wile away
you told me on the train
that youre done with relationships
i softly heard you sigh
i know the struggle comes hard
but honey weve got to try
weve got to try

second verse
i know its silly
oh yes im silly
gotta keep it silly
certain really
measure out the tougher stuff
 not willy nilly
grin by grin
what a tale we spin
through the fire in your song
lets love the moment
holy blessed moment
wick away the torment
find whats dormant
press into each other become self informant
nothings planned
if youll have me stand
take my hand
come along

chorus

bridge
and even though i might not be your type
thats fine
let our friendship intertwine
no longer strangers clad with familiar faces
and even though our hearts may sometimes
shudder shake
better that than lie awake
never know that wondrous sense of
being vulnerable

final verse
got my heart up
youve got your guard up
i know that healing
ive been reeling
spent these past three years feeling
mighty unappealing
brought up poor
never self same sure
but im growing kind

chorus x 2

Every Three Weeks She Sees An Architect - New Song

Hey.

Why do I do this? Write songs. Scratch and scratch.
I'm not a musician. I'm a best a singer/songwriter.
I guess I use songs as anthems, as a way to solve problems, answer questions.
One question I've never been able to answer these past three is years is this: how to have a healthy, loving relationship in New York City.

And this song is a portrait of a friend of a friend. And me coming to terms with the cruelty and the beauty of this city and how maybe, just maybe, love might be waiting for me as well.

Here we go.


lyrics


first verse
this towns an abattoir vacation
people fall behind
like friar bartholomew called them
trees in winter
weekday morning a destination
to a client bound
running errands a helping hand
working for an acronym untangled
that doesnt quite respect

chorus
and every three weeks she sees an architect
every three weeks she sees an architect
every three weeks she sees an architect
and every three weeks she sees an architect
every three weeks she sees an architect
every three weeks she sees an architect

second verse
this towns a diet of expectation
wither by the year
said teju cole in jest its a palimpsest
she was an actress of dedication
in between the grind
but distractions often find
their own rapacious way to slay a dream
unto neglect

chorus

bridge
oh arent you so damn proud
youve written another song
only face youve seen todays
a delivery man
meanwhile in a sterile office complex
the architect hes pointing out his building
and she hides a yawn his favor she is gilding
she hides the fact she mispronounced his name
those first three months a liar
oh me and you were making do with second hand
desire

third verse
this town its public isolation
love however you can
quote myself for a spell
were only guests in this hotel
she bears no halting hestitation
heart is open and wide
and her friends and her lovers climb in
step inside
she burns with vigor
how i genuflect

chorus