I first met His children
when I moved to Missouri,
that gleaming buckle
of the Bible Belt.

In the workplace,
they ate lunch at a table
by themselves,
away from we sinners.

They left cartoon gospel tracts
in the bathroom, the break room,
in dark corners of the warehouse,
shiny beacons for the lost.

Their message removed
stumbling blocks of poetry,
dark mountains of metaphor,
and revealed the shining Sun
of literal biblical Truth.

They wore the message
like black and white armor
that kept the howling grey
of the world at bay.

And having been reborn,
washed clean in some muddy river,
they were free to cast
a thousand stones.

A newspaper story,
rockstar’s death by overdose.
One of His children smiled and asked,
“I wonder where he is now?”
A rhetorical question.
They knew. And laughed.

I shivered, a vision of them
beachfront, enjoying the view
as the ****** writhed and screamed
in a literal lake of fire.

The laughter of His children
reborn in my unbelieving ears
as the sick scraping of knives
sharpening marshmallow sticks.

Sometimes I sit
staring into the night
thoughts wandering
like vagabonds,
wondering if the universe
has edges like flower petals
or a shell like an egg
and if so, then what’s outside it

wondering if dead stars stare
through human eyes
back at themselves
when they were children
filled with fiery light

remembering worlds
like this one
creatures like us
that clung to them
and then vanished

they wink at themselves, now
across a million light years
smiling through my lips

Refusing the dream
a mortgage noose
second job slavery
or ******* half my wages away
on a studio apartment
I rent rooms in people’s homes
though I’d rather live alone

I’ve lived with
slobs and hoarders
and paranoid cowboys
packing six guns indoors
tyrants and doormats
weekend club hoppers
couch potato cable junkies
drunks workaholics
ghost hunters
and time vampires

Sometimes I stay
in my room all weekend
climb in and out of windows
like a cat burglar
oil my creaky door
sneak to the fridge after dark
avoid being cornered
by bodies
by faces wearing eager smiles
by voices dull as butter knives
sawing at my solitude

In my room
I breathe easier
when I hear them leave
engine noise fading
down the street
I roam the house
snoop at photos on walls
bills piled on tables

And sometimes
the women I meet
think I’m a loser
“Aren’t you a little old
to have roommates?”
one asked as we rolled
in the driveway after midnight
we went in
the dog barked
and out came the old man
sagging flesh jiggling
in tighty whiteys
pistol in hand

She still ****** this loser
(I’d rather be loser than slave)
riding me in that twilight room
mattress on the floor
half hard whiskey ****
fearing her prison tattoos
coiled black snakes fading blue
wrapping her torso
she didn’t come back
I’m probably lucky

Now I’m searching
a new house to call home
I shiver at the thought
explaining myself
to whatever strange tribe
adopts this orphan
grows to think of me
as one of their own
when I am not
even
mine

Shall we kneel
at naked emperors feet
gorging at troughs
of savory slogans
dripping like spittle
from bloodless lips.

Shall we shelter
under waving flags
warming our hands
by fires of righteousness
and drinking from cups
brimming with ideals.

Or can we shoot bullets
into moldy flesh of dying words
drop bombs on empty symbols
and decapitate false ideals
their headless bodies
chasing us like zombies.

Until that day
we follow neon arrows
pointing at empty skies,
and any voice
that speaks the “Why.”

Even after throwing
clothes and boxes
from third floor balconies,
after fists through drywall,
broken bottles and windows,
and neighbors calling
the cops at 3 a.m.

After she slashes
his leather couch
with a knife and leaves
a note threatening suicide
signed in her own blood,
to get his attention.

After he gets drunk
and crashes his car,
nearly paralyzing himself,
because he thinks she’s out
******* another guy.

After public declarations,
internet squabbles,
restraining orders,
and wedding rings
thrown from bridges
into muddy rivers.

And sometimes even
after slaps, punches,
or kitchen knives,
nights in jail
or years in prison.

After all this,
they sleep
in beds together
legs touching,
his hand on her belly.

They sleep
wrapped in blankets
breathing softly
as though
nothing had happened.

My eyes open to a room
filled with blurry shapes,
creeping shadows.

A distant car horn
sounds three feet away.
I jump, chest pounding.

Vibrations begin
from deep inside,
spread to hands, fingertips.

I lay still a moment, on my back,
hands folded over my chest,
breathing, staring at the ceiling.

My sodden brain itches
with black whispers
of inevitability.

I sigh and roll over, reach,
trembling fingers touch plastic.
Uncap the bottle and gulp.

Throat burns red
as lukewarm *****
fills raw emptiness.

I retch, hand to lips.
Another swallow, easier,
creeps through veins.

Liquid embrace
soothes every nerve
silences the whispers.

I sit up in bed,
look at the clock.
Work in a couple hours.

Drag myself into the shower,
brush teeth, scraping
white fuzz off my tongue.

Stop for a bottle on the way in.
Stare down as the clerk
slides change across the counter.

I think I’ll make it today,
but how many more like this,
and where does it end?

Even the Earth bulges
and wobbles like a fat man
stumbling through orbit.
The stars crash,
or sicken and die,
bloated like an alcoholic,
and galaxies devour
with gaping jaws,
fangs of light.

Everything perfect from a distance,
like a city from above.
Downtown L.A. from the hills,
peaceful and quiet.
We gaze out on a
clear spring morning,
nod and feel like Kings
surveying our domain,
and all is well.

But down in those trenches,
on skid row sidewalks
lined with tents
the junkies and ******
the insane castaways.

We drive by,
glance through
windows closed
against the stench of ****,
roll through red lights
until we reach a block
of clean glass and steel
skyscrapers, and breathe,
unclench our *******,
and shake our heads,
wondering how.

And is the view
from the hills
or a car window
or a skyscraper
on Bunker Hill
more true
than from the eyes
of a drunk on the sidewalk
on Hollywood boulevard
watching tourist feet
shuffle by
stepping on stars
in 200 dollar shoes.