V. 2, #55: May 22, 2013

She turned and left the room without a word.
Some stared at him, his thoughtless cruelty
still hanging there like smoke. But as for me,
I coughed and made believe I hadn't heard.

But I could still make out her heels' tattoo
upon the marble tile, still see the way
her mouth convulsed, with nothing she could say
to counter that, and nothing she could do.

He bowed his head, ashamed, and left. I sipped
my gin and thought of her, the lipstick smudge
we sponged off my shirt collar in our room.
The band played. One by one, the guests all slipped
out to their cars. With no one left to judge
me then, I drank, still breathing her perfume.

 

V. 2, #37: May 4, 2013

Hands clamped around the wheel as if Grim Death
were coming up fast in the passing lane,
he pushed the pedal down, near half insane
with fiery wrath against her. Every breath

was laden with a curse most inhumane,
as pictures of their bodies intertwined,
the P.I.'s glossy photos, underlined
and time-stamped, fired the furnace of his brain.

Not soon enough, he would stand in the door
of that venomous snake he'd called his friend
and partner, watch the blood drain from his face
while she would only scream. A moment more,
and he, the last alive, would torch the place,
then eat his gat. And that would be the end.

 

#461: The Old Detective Waxes Philosophical Over a Pusher's Corpse, While His Young Partner Listens

"There's two ways you can look at it," he said.
"First, maybe he was only passing through.
Got tangled in some drug deal, lost his head,
and wound up here. Old story. Nothing new.

"The second way is metaphysical,
involving destiny and fate, you see?
Some cosmic, strange gravitational pull
brought him to where he was supposed to be.

"And so his death is like a sacrifice
to gods we have forgotten. If not that,
chaos, to which no meaning can adhere.
So, one or two, son? Neither's very nice."
He lit a cigarette and grabbed his hat.
"Well, anyway, he's dead. Let's get a beer."

#447: Postcard on the Lam

The sun was bleeding out across the sky
like somebody had knifed it. Squared-off tops
of buildings stood erect like traffic cops
waving a funeral on. I wondered why
you hadn't shown up yet--here three hours late
and Louie's big palms itching for the dough.
He asked us where you was; we didn't know.
I figured dead, or staring out the grate
in some big iron door without a key,
or at the pier, your feet in wet cement.
You should have seen the look on Louie's face
the day he got your card. Although it meant
another bloody job for Ox and me,
I figured that was worth a few days' grace.

#430: Drinking Buddies

We came out of the bar about as drunk
as we could get--unburdened, clumsy, broke,
and singing bawdy songs. We stank of smoke
and failure. In the street, a black cat slunk
away, afraid of all our boisterous noise.
He clattered down the alley with the cans
and moaned a hopeless music, like a man's
last cry before despair packs up his voice
in rough pine crates. My hat all bent to hell,
askew atop my wildly spinning brain,
I sang Oh Mary Jane, won't you be mine?
I've had my penecillin--then we fell
into each other's arms and laughed the pain
into our collars. I got home by nine.
_

#383: The Way Tricks Went Down

The way she tells it, Tricks went down like this:
the Boss's man came in, eyes red, aflame
(they called him Hash, but Ed Fink was his name,
the nickname from the weed), and in his fist

the racing form that showed Don't Fail Me Now
had come in third instead of pulling lame.
The Boss had lost a wad, and knew the blame
was Tricks' and Tricks' alone, no matter how.

The gunsel, high as income tax, took aim
(the gat was in the paper, natch), his wrist
supple as surgery, would not allow
last words or prayers. Tricks winked at Betty Dow,
his lips pursed, flirty, one last Judas Kiss,
before the bullet took him off his game.
_

#354: April 12, 2007

"Look, I'll make you a deal: just shut yer trap,
or else I'll shut it for you. How's that sound?
One way, you keep that dame across your lap;
the harder way's a hot date with the ground.

"What now, a heater? Second time today
some gunsel's thought the gat in his right hand's
the whole world by the tail. What can I say?
This type, a beatdown's all he understands.

"Here, gimme that! You're gonna hurt someone.
Now what to do, since Plan A just got scrapped?
Somebody's always giving me his gun.
Punk, you'll take it and like it when you're slapped!

"C'mon, let's see if Gutman comes across.
This'll put you in solid with your boss."

#345: April 3, 2007

A rainy night. The shadows on the streets
elongate in the flicker of the lamp's
moribund bulb. On subway grates the tramps
lie still as corpses in their winding sheets.

The guns in my front pockets chill my thighs.
I pull my collar up against the cold.
The city's dirty, impossibly old,
and plays with us, like wanton boys with flies.

I know that Death is waiting at the end
of this wet night, whether for me or else
some other slob whose luck ran out too soon.
But sometimes that Old Man smiles like a friend.
Sometimes I feel like buying what he sells.
And sometimes, that street light glows like the moon.

#221: November 30, 2006

She got the stems, the gams, the set of wheels,
Start at the floor and right up to her ass;
The slippers silver, ruby, made of glass,
The stockings leave you wondering how it feels
To trace that line, that seam joined at the back,
Old-fashioned, like they drew on in the war--
Nylon was scarce--what did they use it for,
Those soldiers? Secret pantyhose attack?
It doesn't matter--Christ, it makes you choke!
A cuff of lace around the upper thigh,
Right where you'd like to cuff a wandering hand--
Black silk obscuring firm, plump calves like smoke;
Her heels inflame the boys, you understand...
Just listen to 'em burn as she walks by.

#217: November 26, 2006

He walks just like he's sliding over ice,
A dancer's grace--the natural dip and fold
of knee and hip, never the same move twice;
his shoes are hot, but his blue eyes are cold.

Down at the Blue Note seven nights a week,
the women crowded like smokes in a pack
to watch him work, to listen to him speak,
they follow that boy to heaven and back.

And out of Eden, up three flights of stairs,
her chin cupped like an apple in his hand,
he flicks a serpent's tongue to taste her skin.
It may be that she'll never understand
what brought her to his dance hall and this sin;
she falls, and maybe only Jesus cares.

#178: October 18, 2006

The door burst open like a storm, and Stag
blew in. Bill Delisle stood up, like he knew.
No words--belly to throat the blade sliced through;
Mr. Lee unzipped old Bill just like a bag.

Bill gasped and stared down, clutching at his gut
with bloodied hands. The barroom was so still,
I heard the suck and slip of innards spill
through gaping flesh poor Bill could not hold shut.

And whether it was money or a girl
or some point of twisted honor caused the fight,
we didn't know, nor did it matter then.
But what I can't forget about that night
is the sudden calm between those angry men
as one of them slipped off this evil world.

#76: July 8, 2006

He wants a girl who doesn't ask questions
and takes no for an answer. She should know
that how she turns her gams is just one
thing he'll be looking for. Booze makes him slow
sometimes; that's why he likes his women quick
as racehorses, to take up that gray slack
in conversations--molls who know the trick
of magically providing what he lacks.

They're hard to find--most simply wink and pout,
and drink and smoke too much. In fifteen years,
their looks long gone, their luck long since run out,
they'll blame their fool short-sightedness on tears.
They still won't see him, grinning through the smoke
of his Cuban, as at a private joke.

#73: July 5, 2006

Give me some breathing space, you thick-browed goon!
Back off a step or two, or else I swear
I'll turn that lazy eye up to the moon
With a one-punch adjustment. Have a care.

Think I won't cross your eyes and dot your tees?
Don't make assumptions you've no basis for.
Want to see some shade-pullers? Look at these:
Five on this hand, and over here five more.

I've knocked to catatonia bigger brutes
Than you, you grinning ape, you bug-eyed mutt!
You knuckle-dragging, pigeon-toed galoot,
Get out of here, before I crack your butt!

Still want some? I thought not. Go on, now, shoo!
Who else would like a little? Huh? How 'bout you?

#28: May 21, 2006

She smoked like Raymond Chandler on a tear,
With lips like she'd been eating cherry pie
Real sloppy. I could smell the rotgut rye
Behind her ears, and lilacs in her hair.

Her eyes were working under half-dropped lids,
She took my measure--call it forty-long,
That leaves room for the gat. She hummed a song
Under her breath; we mooned a while like kids,

Her hand in mine like feathers off a dove,
Her voice a tenor sax. I'd like to say
She played so sweet I never felt the knife
Till it was in. But nothing works that way.
At least when she kissed me it felt like love.
I've never been that drunk in my whole life.

"Noir, #28," selected as a finalist in The Formalist's 14th Annual Howard Nemerov Sonnet Competition!