Killing Jones

            I'd had a contract on Jones's head for so long I was beginning to wonder if a second assignment would ever come.
            I enjoyed wearing suits but my tie was reluctant. I had never learned the double Windsor and the single felt like a limp handshake. My gun, silencer and all, was in my front right pants pocket and I hoped Jones wouldn't get the wrong idea. In my left hand was a briefcase. My cover was I was with a law firm. Who? I couldn't remember. My infant right hand smoothed my hair and then knocked on the door.
            "Hey! Are you from the firm? Intern? You're not here to kill me, are you? Ha ha! Hey, you twenty-one yet? Drink?"
            "Um," I said.
            "Used to think 4:30 was too early for drinking. This is paradise, though, right? Something light? Rum & coke? Jack & coke? Cuervo & coke? Disaronno & coke?"
            My head listed to the left. I put my lips together and smoothed my hair. "Um, the rum sounds good, sure."
            "Jesus, you're young. I might need to see some ID, haha, just kidding, you know. You kids get younger every year. Put your briefcase on the table. Rum's good for me, too. Double? I need a double these days."
            Putting my briefcase down like he told me to, I started to say the single's fine when his cell phone rang.
            "Let me get this," he said, handing me my drink. I smoothed my hair and he answered. "Jones. Yeah. No, no, it's Lakers-Suns tonight. Yeah. Courtside, man. Yeah."
            He went on like this and I wondered if what I was getting paid for this job would cover a year in his condo. Deep red curtains. Beige carpet. Navy couch, glass coffee table in front of the massive plasma TV. Jones still on the phone. Paintings by French guys I'd never heard of. A bar with liquor I'd never heard of. Jones still on the phone. An open box of cigars. Mahogany table matching chairs. Jones still on the phone.
            "Listen, I gotta go. There's a guy here to kill me. Yeah, he's from the firm, some intern. These guys get younger every year. Give my middle nut to see Yarborough, Emery, or Gorin themselves come down here. What do you have to pay 'em for that, right? Bloodsuckers. Anyway, see you soon, man."
            A sip from his double rum & coke. "Hey, so what's your name, chief? You already know mine. Listen, can make this quick? That guy I was just on the phone with and a couple of girls will be here in like half an hour. Lakers tickets. Big game tonight, am I right? Playoffs on the line. You follow basketball? Anyway, let's get down to this."
            I almost told him, point blank, that I was here to kill him. Instead I smoothed my hair and told him it was just minor stuff, should only take about twenty minutes, if that's no inconvenience to him.
            "Long as I get to that Lakers game we're solid, my man. You sure you're not trying to kill me?"
            My eyes felt wide. This joke was not funny. How many times had he told it?
            "Maybe I am," I stammered.
            "Haha, I'm starting to wonder. Okay, what's up? Open that briefcase. What's the combination? 666? Ha ha! You ever see that movie? Pulp Fiction? Was it that one? The briefcase, the combination lock is 666. Yeah. So what's up?"
            My thumbs rolled the combination. The briefcase wouldn't open. My eyes felt wider. Awkward pause.
            "Hey, what's up, chief? What was your name again? Case stuck? Jesus, how young are you? Come on, man, the Lakers. Fifteen minutes."
            Sweaty hand smooth hair. Wipe it on my pants. Finger the gun in my pocket. Is it loaded? What's the combination?
            His fingers drummed the table. Mahogany. He sipped his drink. Rum & coke double. This is my first time. I stood up. Can I use his bathroom?
            "My bathroom? What is this, some kinda Godfather shit? You got a gun planted there? Just open the briefcase, chief. Open the fucking briefcase! Open the fucking case right fucking now!"
            Hand still on my gun went off in my pocket. No sound. Split second stop breathing. A bullet lodged in my foot. Blood seeping through leather shoes. I couldn't feel it yet. Pulled out my gun. One in his forehead, another in his chest. I downed my rum & coke in one gulp. Ran to his bar. Grabbed the whiskey. Poured some on my foot. Drank some. Shot him again in the chest. Once more in the head. I grabbed my briefcase and tracked blood all over the apartment hallway until I could hail myself a cab to the hospital, wondering about that second assignment.

Michael’s anniversary party

i hold the bowl of wax fruit
the old rope-swing by the river
Everyone whistling dixie while dragging her kite
me, waiting in the marble kitchen

the old rope-swing by the river
the tuesday Michael drowned
me, waiting in the marble kitchen
mom ate a real orange

the tuesday Michael drowned
he tended the goats and read the Torah
mom ate a real orange
peeled with her hook

Hehe tended the goats and read the Torah
dad always had a beer afterwards
peeled with her hook
mom cried over Michael’s ruined green sweater

dad always had a beer afterwards
the airplanes buzzed
mom cried over Michael’s ruined green sweater
while i bit into the wax apple

the airplanes buzzed
Everyone said the rope-swing broke
while i bit into a wax apple
imagining the nightmares Michael’s ghost will do to her

Everyone said the rope-swing broke
Everyone whistling dixie while dragging her kite
imagining the nightmares Michael’s ghost will do to her
i hold the bowl of wax fruit

I get tired around 3

When I put fake sugar in my afternoon coffee, I can't remember which packet, the pink or the blue, is supposed to give you cancer and which packet is supposed to give you memory loss.

because asking for directions is a cop-out

Five feet in front invisible,

As if the inquisitive iris of my

galaxy-orbiting

telescope could see

as far as her vision.

Bleak, grey skyfog, 300 feet up

Red brick           metal                blackclumped slush

filling holes in my shoes

            soaking socks and softly the

Saturn sets off for Sunset Street

I'd do unspeakable acts for a pet peacock,

so I sketch an antelope burying its face

into a Lion's stomach, blood trickling down

the antelope's mouth

and crusting on the Lion's mane

after the theta waves, a face contorts

legs sweat together    not five feet away

the lion lies, blood crusting his brown beard

i sing bob marley as

            my best friend carefully cautiously

                        creeps out the back door.

Wake to ghosts,

red eyes,

Legion,

black wings, singed hair.

The Lion shouts "JesusMaryJoseph"

so I recite the first chapter of Matthew,

            put an arrow through the heart of the constellation of Orion.

                        Next, I eat a guy for lunch

in a hot-dog eating contest.

Then,

stumble over my words, saying "incest were everywhere" and

            "insects is immoral and disgusting"

Until

the transparent greenblue clearing, steam rising from the pool, but

            in the shallows are cool countercurrents.

                                    The smell of crock pot pot roast.

                        White bed linens.        Blonde girls.                No Lions.

Saturday Night

The party wasn't terribly fun, the topless girl

and her tedious conversation,

eyes transfixed on her wild white hair

more than her impossible breasts.

Siamese cherubim, half-black, half-white,

their blue wings and that insufferably trite

Greek theater mask.

I stumbled semi-intoxicated

                                    down the staircase. There's only

so much of that watery silt of the

            Rockies diluted with hops and barley

I can take. I think I'm too sober, and

there's the sandy,        expansive,       formless,          dry,

no vegetation,                         freezing-at-night         desert.

To my surprise, a giraffe.

To my city-eyes the neck like a crane…

the spots like an old woman's coat…

                        wobbly legs…on fire.

Shocked, I started to run for some water, but it said,

            you misunderstand. I'm not burning up

or dying

                        or anything. I'm

       just on fire.

Its head drooped downward,

                                                eyes closed.

My name is Andy.

            Instinctively, I stuck out my hand,     told him

what people call me.

       Confused, he raised his hoof. Quickly, I put my hand

                        down…apologized for my rudeness.

I know what your real name is

I don't want to sound like I'm interrogating you,

no no, it's okay.

why are you in the desert? Giraffes eat leaves,

            and there aren't any trees in sight. Also,

why are you on fire?

His eyes closed tight,

            a red tear.

      He just shook his head.

Seeds from my pocket, I knelt down.

I moved the futile soil around,

buried a few, and recovered.

It looks like

it's probably going to rain.

Skeptical, I hailed a cab regardless.

            Giraffes have a tough time waving goodbye.

Honesty

So it's the El tonight.

(Southbound)

I'm going to 95/Dan Ryan, but really,

I'm going to Chicago and State.

Michigan Avenue. A few blocks up, East Pearson Street.

The train creaks and hums.

I pass a building—no—more like a skeleton on a pile of dirt.

Four months ago                                 it was just a pile of dirt.

I might live there                                 when it's finished.

Thorndale is next. Doors open on the left at Thorndale.

A grey-haired yeti reads the newspaper. Two vampires,

probably my age, talk loudly. Try to figure out the train stops.

They're not from here.

A black guy in a business suit writes

on a piece of paper on the back of his leather satchel.

Not Addison yet, but I bet that couple's going to the Cubs game—

their jerseys, her jewelry, his phone clipped to his belt.  

The Brewers are in town. The Cubs and the Brewers,

they're battling for first place.

A fat woman helps the vampires who are from out of town.

The fat woman isn't going to the Cubs game, but the vampires are.

I wish I was.

The smell of stale piss.

A tired old sasquatch with a huge grey beard asleep in the back.

I bet this is where he always sleeps.

Run-down buildings out the window, decadence.

This isn't nice neighborhoods here wrong side of the tracks there.

This isn't where America goes to die or to sell out.

It's more real.                                                  More honest.

Addison is next. Doors open on the left at Addison.

The Red line is not as fast as some others, but

some others don't have Wrigleyville or

Michigan Avenue,

Comiskey Park or

Chinatown,

Loyola or

DePaul, or…

In my head, I hear a mid-tempo jazz song.                             A-minor.

Drums.                        Bass.                Guitar.             Tenor sax.

I hear guitar, not piano, because

I play guitar, not piano.

I couldn't not be a musician if I tried.

This is Belmont. Transfer to Purple and Brown line trains at Belmont.

This is my favorite stop.

It's not a tourist spot.

Clarke's Diner.

The Beat Kitchen, where I met Kevin and Andy.

A comic book store.

Samah, the best hooka bar in town.

A used records store that doesn't carry Kevin or Andy's albums.

The obligatory Dunkin' Doughnuts. I hate Dunkin' Doughnuts.

This is the longest poem I've written in a long time, and I haven't said anything.

          Yet.

A frazzled, middle-aged leprechaun steps on.

Hard day at the office, busy night ahead. A ten-dollar bill

falls out of his khakis.

An Asian couple, both of whom can barely speak English,

pick up the ten-dollar bill,

call to man, and hand him his money.

We go underground. It's dark now, but the train's lights are on.

I bet the train gets really crowded right as I get off.

I ride the train so much I have all the ads memorized.

Hotels.             Jewelry.           Food.               A hairdresser.

Chuck was right, the leviathan isn't watching.

                                    He's singing and dancing.

More and more people get on.

Chicago and State is next. Doors open on the right at Chicago and State.

many of them would come by in time

many of them (would write) like Her             (illegible scrawl in the margin)

two would       come to Her Word

She then would use up          the hot Water                       (in the field)

most may have                but                                             

 did my sound                                            

        come by?                                          (with the foxes?)

who can know?

(make Him see His)

call first the people over to Him

is it in you to go         down the Side of the River

and find the Sound of the splashing Rocks?

time will find a way    (if i look)

          for one more day

(on your other side)

no number is so long      He said when we were all

when we were all which word we

we could do this thing

they are at some                      what            with Her?

the foxes are probably involved

                                         each one  

   most sound

the otters were to be there                                                     (out of the way)

(He has to see His)

(He had to see His or                                  )

              it has been a long number now

    Her Word from my

  Her Sound from my

as long as She will write

i will be more  (                    )

Halloween

Behind subterranean wall

knee-deep in blood, the enemy

glued to my habitat,

    loves milk,     discarded his

dirty jug in dead countercurrents

of the river exhaling helium.

I haven't killed him.

I don't think the precision of my moral indoctrination

will allow me to do so.

     Do ospreys or albatrosses fly

in this awful snow?

Albatrosses do, definitely. 

their blackwhite feathers against the grey sky,

though their yelloworange beaks are

the only parts that stick out.

The shade of the building.                  I only remembered the wooden grave today.

Chalk powder sprinkling

      the earth that smells like old potatoes.

It's not Sunday.         

The nuns don't pray.

God, please bless them, so that they will.

We're not quite Catholic, but…         ?

We'll walk through the orchid            (red poking green)

then tip the cattle                                (the smell of broken eggs)

and listen for the soft viola

of buckshot.