loaded

every day, in the early afternoon,
as the sun is pulling down
into her nest of water,
I open my front door.
I walk the familiar steps
across the living room,
into the quiet kitchen.
in the liquor cabinet:
the gun sitting there shy
like my boy on his first day of school,
not saying anything.

just resting there, on the top
shelf, above the fridge
as if it hadn't moved all day.
As if it hadn't even whispered
a single rumor.
each day
after the clamour of the office
before the wife gets home
from her night classes
i open that small, elevated door.

I spend a moment
pouring my scotch on top the
refrigerator.

i look at the small, quiet gun.

how it spends most of its life
sleeping.
cuddled up in the comfort
of liquors from around the world.
and how it's only purpose
in this house is to protect.

i slide the bottle behind the weapon.
softly i say,
as i would to some street thug,
i trust that you have an amazing potential
but i hope to never see it.

on being broke

If i were getting paid
this would be a lot easier
knowing that something was at stake
but now
it's just late night ramblings
no one should read

If i were getting paid
life would be a lot easier
I would have things to write about
like what i did
with my money
each day of the week

If i were getting paid
my mother and aunt
and brother and his fiance
would stop worrying about me

If i were getting paid
that would mean
that i was working...
and that doesn't sound like any
reasonable way to live your life.

oh brother

The black keys
underneath these fingertips
won't be pushed into writing
another poem about writing.

No, tonight these keys
will open the lock
to my imprisoned imagination.

It will come out of these gates
fuming and livid.
ready to tear the night sky in half
crawl out the other side
into a studio of white
with a thousand paint buckets.

i will dip my hands in the red
and the blue

get patriotic for a second.

then i will light the place on fire
walk out into the street
and listen to the music
of sirens.

I will wave at the police officers
with my american hands
i will wave them my middle fingers
underneath the changing street lights
yellow, green, red.
the colors of Lithuania
A place i've never been
but it seems everyone else
is headed there.

I'll drag the mouse to a new browser
go to one of those sites
put in my credit card number
click print
for proof of purchase.

or maybe, i'll just close out
of both browsers.

do something really daring.
like go outside,