Futile Efforts (50 page)

on stage in hell.

by Tom Piccirilli

Grinning that livid grin, she stuck her feet up on the dash and urged

the slick desperation out of me, giving that laugh and hissing,

come on, run.

Her breath as thick and heavy as honey,

mascara bleeding from her eyes like an Egyptian queen ordering

slaves into the desert, under the stones,

to fall on their swords.
 
Her tongue flicked back and forth across her lips,

and a strap fell from her white shoulder.
 
Pale flesh in moonlight,

the promise of a sweaty sack, you do unreasonable acts for very obvious

reasons.
 
I am

the living cliché of my forefathers, the empty summit

of their common hopes,

the wasteland of their menial efforts, they're all spinning

under the earth thinking, Christ,

this is where my blood has gone?

...this is where my sweat and love and death

have brought my name?...

I drop my chin and ease off the brake

because I have nothing better waiting for me now or tomorrow

than this.
 
Sometimes you call the tornado down,

boredom and the sound of your own heart

is almost as bad as your brother's smiling disregard.

You sure, I said, and she answered by leaning over

and gripping my goodies.

I could almost see the cop in the rearview

snicker, knowing that I was no different than the rest,

his twice-busted nose wrinkled, teeth on display,

eager in his judgment,

reaching for the radio to call in

my plate numbers
–hey Myrtle, got an antsy one at a red light,

acting suspicious, he's making the air cold, and I think

his girl has got her hand around

his package, yes it's confirmed, she's got him

by the goodies, Myrtle–

I am

a split hydrogen atom,

the destruction of a mother's standards,

the failure of a species

and I've never even done anything wrong.
 
I'm not interesting enough

to have done anything wrong,

so a lot is riding on this.

I floored it through the red light without another car

in sight.
 
At 4am the city gives you

some space to scream,

to chase yourself around the far corners of memory

and brutality.

Ride my bumper, Joe Friday,

let's head to the river.

The siren exploded, the
brights
boiled my eyes into steam.

She gave a yip and tightened her fist

and I gave a cry that cut back through the centuries,

that made my brother hike up in bed with his nose bleeding,

that shook the books from the walls of the New York library.

Tires smoking, I swung it over to the east side

because if we were gonna kill anybody

I wanted it to be

one of the elite:

the magistrates, the movie stars, the ones who had

forgotten, the ones who did not know, the ones

who've traded my soul for their silver,

out there now walking their dogs

in the pre-dawn glow

of a paradise

they never thought they could lose.

By Tom Piccirilli

I knew the car wouldn't make it but

the bookstore owner was the king of jaunty talk,

so I got it out to L.A. in 14 hours straight,

pumped.
 
Gave a pretty good reading, sold a lot of books,

(it doesn't mean squat, I
never
get royalties),

made eyes at the old Italian ladies who didn't know

what the hell to make of the novels

but still liked my name.

They brought homemade lasagna

with them.
 
I got paper plates next door at the Jewish Deli

and we had a picnic in the shop.
 
He'd been smooth

and he'd been right,

it had been a good time.

On the way back, I threw a rod outside of Vegas,

in one of those desolate spots where you know,

shit, this isn't good,

in fact,

this is entirely bad.
 
I may have to drink the windshield

washer fluid,

I'll have to gather up stones and spell out

I'M FUCKED over there in the sand.

Good thing I'd taken the leftover pasta.

In about twenty minutes I'd given up hope,

thought

this is it, I'm a goner, forgive me my sins.
 
I started

calculating how many Our Fathers and Hail
Marys

it might take to save my soul.

I had to get cracking.

I'd finished off my third Hail Mary and was thinking

about how I could siphon gas out of the tank and make

a smoke signal

when an 18-wheeler broke over the rise,

slowed, glided down and pulled it over perfectly

to my toe.

I grabbed my pack and hopped in,

shook his hand and thanked him

for saving me from the vultures,

from the approximate 30 thousand

Our Fathers and Hail
Marys
I had left to go.

He was a huge brute of a man, with arms that didn't seem

to have elbows, a neck like a tree stump.
  
He wore a bandana

but I could see his head was horribly scarred.

I'd seen it before on the guys

who refused to wear helmets.

We talked current events for a couple of miles

and then settled into silence,

lulled by the scent of cactus flowers.

He cleared his throat and snapped me back, letting out a slow

low dangerous chuckle first.
 
Oh Christ, I thought, here we go:

How do you know? he asked

How do I know what?

How do you know I'm not a...?

Not a what...what?

How do you know I'm not a...
killer
?

I told him the truth because

every once in a while

it works. I said,

I am pure of heart, man, no weapon can harm me.

If I stuck a .45 in your ribs it'd blow your liver

to the other side of Maine.

The sword of St. Michael burns over my left shoulder,

man, it guards my every move,

I've got paradise on my side.

What's that smell? he asked.

Ozone.
 
God's gonna wreak his wrath on your ass.

No, really, what is it?

Lasagna.

You've got lasagna and you weren't going to share?

I would've shared if you hadn't started talking all that killer

shit, man.

Pass it over, I'm hungry.
 
I'm harmless, I was kidding.

I handed it over and he unwrapped the tinfoil

like opening

a sackcloth preserving the bones of a saint.

He had his own silverware and ate greedily

and when he was finished he let out a sigh

and didn't speak again.

He dropped me in a town that had nine buildings

and a phone.
 
The car wasn't worth towing so I left it.

I caught a ride home with a van full of Mexicans

listening to an 8-Track of Santana's
Black Magic
.

I walked in my front door and I thanked Christ

and I thanked the old Italian ladies, and

I thanked our country's liberal immigration laws, and

I pressed my
stubbled
cheek

to the sword of St. Michael

and let the flame shave me

until my face was smooth

as a newborn baboon's ass.

by Tom Piccirilli

1.

My father on the bathroom floor, breathing his last.

2.

My sister over the last ten years, for no reason

I can name, but

somehow it's still there.
 
Huge and immovable.

3.

The doctor at Planned Parenthood, who doesn't

come down to the waiting room.

4.

The drunk guy who calls and asks for Shirley at 2am,

who believes I am married to her,

that I have stolen her from him, who weeps

and tells me

to tell Shirley to come home.

5.

Whoever ran off with my Bob the Hamster key chain.

6.

The last priest I confessed to, hidden

behind his screen,

safe from my eyes.

7.

The folks who'll get my internal organs

if I don't croak beneath

a steamroller.

8.

My children.

9.

My own, so far today, except

in these words.

10.

The angel emerging from the dark,

unveiled,

at my loneliest

moment.

My Grandfather's Fear Cut Loose Through the Decades