May sandpaper be the rough

hand that rubs you smooth.

Be carved until the end of you is a wedge—

you already know the precision it takes

to fit well enough not to be dislodged.

Be a length of carbon-rich steel,

2,350° F in the open flame

before you are positioned between

two dies, let the pressure have

all of you until you are formed.

Have the flash cut from you;

excess is excessive. Be cooled in water,

not air. Don’t breathe. Drown.

Neat

Neat

Hidden by the overhang of a circular bar,

lies a man who’s seen the bottom of his tumbler.

No one is above being invisible,

not even me, with my shirt tidily pressed,

another man who’s seen the bottom of a tumbler.

Each swirl of scotch nudges closer to the rim.

Not even my shirt will stay tidy and pressed,

my tie cinched and secure. It’s waiting to unravel.

Each swig of scotch nudges me closer to a rim

every day, drops roll off the cliff of my parted lips.

My tie cinched and secure, I’m waiting to unravel,

waiting to spill into sleep—joints sore and speaking.

Day drops off a cliff. My lips part,

I drool on scuffs and bruises from boot and heel.

What I spill seeps, joins the floor, speaking

about straight shots taken to the head.

I’m all scuffle and bruises barely healed.

A swallow of whiskey won’t drown my questions.

Another shot won’t take me out of my head.

Why do I dress with this much care?

Swallow whiskey? Drown in questions?

Why a beard so prepared, ensemble so neat?

Why dress this carefully?

Why bother to drag a razor through the shadow

of a beard, prepare, assemble, neatly

tie a loop with no beginning or end, only

to be a bother, a draggled, razor-thin shadow,

hidden by the overhang of a circular bar.

How to Get Your Gun Safely Out of Your Mouth

How to Get Your Gun Safely Out of Your Mouth