June 9, 2009
Scranton…
Ithaca….
$300 for a flight.
Back home.
The wind in the chimes
Never stopped.
And death.
Is not some boding storm
No
It’s a phone call at the mailbox
Brewing coffee
Dead in the woods
You quit life
My dad remembers laughing in the dark
Listening to Bill Cosby
He hasn’t even cried yet
You were his big brother.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Shaken, Not Stirred
Shaken, Not Stirred
Iced venti unsweetened green tea. What delusions has he? Some, but he is stunning. Alone in the corner with no wedding ring. He makes all the female baristas wonder…
PJ it’s adorable how he tries to be an asshole. Aspirations of being like House. No such luck. I’m a “bad ass” he says. Right. We sat and had a drink or three or four. Me checking my posture in the beginning, if you sit taller you will look older some how. He sips his wine and I’m all shifty eyes trying to figure out what this cat wants from me. I want to know what he does. What “things” he continues to work on as he sits in his corner at Starbucks… that chair has become his and no one else’s.
Tramonanto is his last name. He says he used to hug Joe Bannano on Sundays. I would think he is a mobster, but I don’t get that vibe from him. I called him out on being a spy. One day at work I decided this was a good thing to assume. They all want to be James Bond so nourish that fantasy and they notice. His smile is straight and charming, sort of ridiculously so. I want it to say, “nothing I say is true’ this is just the glitter that my teeth spit out, but everything about him seems genuine. He’s not a liar as far as I can tell… but what do I know? I’m a writer.
He told a story about how he rolled the sheriff the other day. Body slammed this cocky little kid who did not understand the situation. He pulled the tasers out too. This is how they train you in “spy school”. The lines are so blurred between reality and whatever else it is we chose to believe. But his stories tumble out, and his blue eyes are fire bright like those embers that glow forever.
Peeg is something else. He told me about this time when he was with his friend Glen. His best friend- he emphasizes. He cut his head open doing something under the house. And Glen’s wife Danna insisted on taking him to the hospital. His voice seeped into the streets of New York with that story, his accent just tagging along on the end of certain words. And I just want to write his story.
The one where he bulshitted his way into working at Postrio with Wolfgang, and shadrack, and abindendigo. I forget the cat’s names but he is impressed by their venire to this day. The stars in his little boy eyes coming back to haunt him, as the pure shots of tequila we took began to sink in.
PJ stumbles into stories he’s not supposed to be telling me because I’m kryptonite. He had two-no four glasses of wine and in his lifetime he has almost died two-no four times. No matter how many times he busts his head doing something stupid he never notices blood- that’s just how he is. He spent three days in the hospital once barely breathing. Living- just a vapor that dreamed up his existence. When he finally came to- the IV’s in his arm were coming out like a Christmas tree ordainment and tubes were crowding and carousing in every orifice. They told him not to try to talk- to write things down one word at a time. He wrote 24--- or--- 32---inch---plasma? The nurse figured out he was asking about the TV screen above his bed. The man has a crazy mind like a steal trap. Trapping in the experiences he only hints to whisper at my kryptonite.
Then he smiles that smile he says he never smiles and tells me about Glen’s kids, and the wine he slips them, while learning about video games, and cruising on the house boat. He and Glen own a Ferrari, and ride around like the kings Dana will forever despise for being so ridiculous.
But being down to earth is really what these life long friends hold dear to their existence. Because “it’s sad to know that life is more than who we are”, but is it? What life throws at us is what we take to the bank like quarters rolled in paper. We walk out with cold hard cash that we squander in the streets. Does it matter what you do? Who you are?- Or just how you do? We get verbs mixed up with pronouns and the language of life begins to stutter confused with syntax. But PJ tries to stay above all that- and he tells me- it’s lonely where I am…I wanna come back down but please don’t tell them my name… It’s PJ- iced venti unsweetened green tea, skaken, not stirred, and flipped when the moment is right.
For PJ RIP
Iced venti unsweetened green tea. What delusions has he? Some, but he is stunning. Alone in the corner with no wedding ring. He makes all the female baristas wonder…
PJ it’s adorable how he tries to be an asshole. Aspirations of being like House. No such luck. I’m a “bad ass” he says. Right. We sat and had a drink or three or four. Me checking my posture in the beginning, if you sit taller you will look older some how. He sips his wine and I’m all shifty eyes trying to figure out what this cat wants from me. I want to know what he does. What “things” he continues to work on as he sits in his corner at Starbucks… that chair has become his and no one else’s.
Tramonanto is his last name. He says he used to hug Joe Bannano on Sundays. I would think he is a mobster, but I don’t get that vibe from him. I called him out on being a spy. One day at work I decided this was a good thing to assume. They all want to be James Bond so nourish that fantasy and they notice. His smile is straight and charming, sort of ridiculously so. I want it to say, “nothing I say is true’ this is just the glitter that my teeth spit out, but everything about him seems genuine. He’s not a liar as far as I can tell… but what do I know? I’m a writer.
He told a story about how he rolled the sheriff the other day. Body slammed this cocky little kid who did not understand the situation. He pulled the tasers out too. This is how they train you in “spy school”. The lines are so blurred between reality and whatever else it is we chose to believe. But his stories tumble out, and his blue eyes are fire bright like those embers that glow forever.
Peeg is something else. He told me about this time when he was with his friend Glen. His best friend- he emphasizes. He cut his head open doing something under the house. And Glen’s wife Danna insisted on taking him to the hospital. His voice seeped into the streets of New York with that story, his accent just tagging along on the end of certain words. And I just want to write his story.
The one where he bulshitted his way into working at Postrio with Wolfgang, and shadrack, and abindendigo. I forget the cat’s names but he is impressed by their venire to this day. The stars in his little boy eyes coming back to haunt him, as the pure shots of tequila we took began to sink in.
PJ stumbles into stories he’s not supposed to be telling me because I’m kryptonite. He had two-no four glasses of wine and in his lifetime he has almost died two-no four times. No matter how many times he busts his head doing something stupid he never notices blood- that’s just how he is. He spent three days in the hospital once barely breathing. Living- just a vapor that dreamed up his existence. When he finally came to- the IV’s in his arm were coming out like a Christmas tree ordainment and tubes were crowding and carousing in every orifice. They told him not to try to talk- to write things down one word at a time. He wrote 24--- or--- 32---inch---plasma? The nurse figured out he was asking about the TV screen above his bed. The man has a crazy mind like a steal trap. Trapping in the experiences he only hints to whisper at my kryptonite.
Then he smiles that smile he says he never smiles and tells me about Glen’s kids, and the wine he slips them, while learning about video games, and cruising on the house boat. He and Glen own a Ferrari, and ride around like the kings Dana will forever despise for being so ridiculous.
But being down to earth is really what these life long friends hold dear to their existence. Because “it’s sad to know that life is more than who we are”, but is it? What life throws at us is what we take to the bank like quarters rolled in paper. We walk out with cold hard cash that we squander in the streets. Does it matter what you do? Who you are?- Or just how you do? We get verbs mixed up with pronouns and the language of life begins to stutter confused with syntax. But PJ tries to stay above all that- and he tells me- it’s lonely where I am…I wanna come back down but please don’t tell them my name… It’s PJ- iced venti unsweetened green tea, skaken, not stirred, and flipped when the moment is right.
For PJ RIP
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