An owl hoots in daylight
voice hungry and hoarse
from a failed nightly hunt.

Bachelors groan
hungover from empty
Saturday morning beds.

As the sun beats down
on black ants crossing miles
of parking lot pavement
through canyon cracks.

And morning dewdrops shrink
on shiny green leaves,
tiny universes vanishing
leaving behind white
stains like dried *****.

A slug crawls out
from cool garden canopy
to suicide slowly,
sun baked on a granite boulder.

A distant phone rings
across a quiet neighborhood.
I wonder who is calling...

I prefer my head
spinning with confusion
to the lust for certainty
that inspires your gatherings.

A crowd of ideological clones
all in agreement
smiling and nodding
patting one another on the back
laughing at the ignorance
of the masses of straw men
outside your gates.

With enough eyes, ears,
mouths, lips and *******
“It could be” becomes “It is”
and “Maybe” becomes “Yes”
doubts are squashed
like Halloween pumpkins
with hammer blow shouts.

When I hear your footsteps
heavy like jackboots
I slip quietly out the back door
and down the shadowed alley
wanting no part of your circle ****
of self validation.

Just be sure to mop up
when you're finished.

Older woman
25 to my 19
dark eyes like
grey gun barrels
Manson family eyes
believing and
unblinking eyes
seeking a cult of two.

Eyes that gaze at me
or any man
like that
should be plucked
from their sockets
sent back
to the factory.
(How did mine look at you?)

Should have run
but the lure
of playing god awhile...
(Or was I the one kneeling?)

You said
he was gone
he took his clothes
his yelling
his fists through walls
and other women’s lipstick
and hickeys on his neck
with him when he left.

So I basked
in your believing glow
until the phone calls
stopped
and I drove by your house
saw his car in the driveway.

The calls started again
when he left again
relentless ringing
calls at work
when I said *******
took the home phone
off the hook.

Not even god
could handle
your voice shrieking
from your rejected soul
telling me how
you’d punch me in the face
when you next saw me.

You were a bit taller
and much more insane
so I laid low for awhile
a god face down in the dirt.

He’s on line
at a sandwich shop
texting his girlfriend
how some *******
on his cell phone
was tying up traffic
on the freeway.

A ten foot space
has opened in the line
ahead of him
and the clerk
behind the counter
is waiting.

He doesn’t see it
doesn’t feel
the eyes of the man
behind him
on the back of his neck
boring a hole.

The man pulls out his phone,
begins texting his wife
“You won’t believe this ****....”

She’s in bed
hears the ding
reaches for it
reads and sighs
and her thumbs are tapping
“Sorry, honey. What a ****!”

She sets the phone down
turns to the man next to her
wraps her arms around him
and before their lips meet
whispers
“God, he’s so ******* boring.”

Whether the role I play
in the movie du jour
running in my one seat theater
is savior of the downtrodden
or shining knight to a fair maiden
or victim of a cruel and unjust world
or a martyr whose death
inspires people to revolution
or even as a nefarious criminal
who ought to be locked up
for the good of humanity.

The one constant is this thing
this “I” with its overwhelming gravity
like a giant star that draws everything
into orbit around itself.

As my human body goes to work
sits at a little desk in a little office
at the edge of town
and does it’s boring little job.

The head will not long suffer
that state of affairs.

If talk is cheap
what are thoughts worth?
Or feelings?

An attic filled with stuffy air
dim light leaking in
through dusty vents
filtered through cobwebs
and falling on
unused tennis rackets
and jogging shoes
self help books
wrapped in plastic.

Or a damp basement
foot thick concrete
old coal furnace
black shards stuck
in widening cracks
in crumbling walls
a single incandescent bulb
shines on an old album
photos of former lovers
pages stuck together
from being spit on.

She’s at the bar beside me
trembling and
wiping her eyes
and swaying a little,
brushing against me
with her *******
now and then.

I’ve seen her around.
We’ve talked before.

I’m not bad she says,
I’m not a bad person.
Her fists are clenched
like she’s gonna
throw a punch.

I ask, but she
shakes her head,
shuts her eyes.
I don’t ask again.

I buy her a shot.
She drinks it,
keeps saying
I’m not bad,
I’m a good person,
deep down I’m good.

Her mouth says this
as her mascara runs
and her fists clench.

I light her cigarette
watch it glow
as she *****,
exhales through red lips,
sways on stiletto pumps,
steadies herself
with a hand on my chest,
as I think of what to say
that might help her
back to my apartment.