One must try hard,
not to see certain things:
the rust orange glow
of the setting sun,
a bloated scowling face
casting shadow stains
across ivory columns
and monuments
to former greatness.

Yet eyes are clouded
with enough fear
to believe it rises,
or that our belief
can make it rise again,
even as it visibly sinks
below the western horizon,
and shadows lengthen,
and darken.

A raw beauty exists
in these colors of fading light,
though I shudder to imagine
the long night that awaits,
and the things that
might fill the darkness
to terrify and ruin
a generation of children.

I hope not to witness that.
I hope the twilight lasts awhile,
but that I am asleep
before night
completely
falls.

There are days
when the waves
are too big for swimming.

And days when
you just know they are,
though you haven't
walked down to the beach,
or even peeked out the window.

There's a storm brewing,
you're sure of it.

So you wait in the house
with the shades drawn,
listen for thunderclaps,
and envision the swells growing
under darkening skies.

Man and woman
face off on a street corner,
voices growing louder,
pointing and flailing their arms.

Finally he screams,
“Look, I'm right, ok?
I don’t need validation from you!"

He turns and storms off
down the sidewalk toward me,
as she stares at his back
with her mouth hanging open,
hands on her hips.

I can hear him
breathing heavily
and muttering as he passes,
a slight breeze in his wake.

As I turn and watch him go,
my feet shuffle a few steps
toward him, as though
following on their own.

I look down at them,
shaking my head,
No.

A siren screams
toward death or fire
breaking early morning silence
as creeping sunlight
mixes with long shadows
leftover from the night.

Across the street
a man struggles
to hold a snarling pit bull
which is dragging him
towards a smaller dog
cowering at his owner’s feet.

“No!” and “Knock it off!”
yells the man,
as the animal pulls
at his harness,
growling through bared canines.

The owner of the smaller dog
scoops him up,
carries him
to the opposite side
of the street,
cradling him in her arms
like a baby.

The pit bull stares
as they walk away,
covering its teeth
as they round a corner
out of sight.

Now it is man,
dragging beast toward home.
“Come on, you!” he says,
chest puffed, a strut in his step.

As I’m sitting
on the living room sofa,
eating a bowl
of fish and rice,
my other roommate
passes through
on his way to the kitchen,
asks “What’s up?”

“Not much” I say
as I watch him wobble
through the room
on skinny legs
in his bathrobe
at noon on a Saturday.

The fridge door squeaks open,
he’s in there a minute or so,
then he wobbles back through
empty handed,
goes into his room,
and shuts the door.

After I finish eating,
I wash my bowl,
open the fridge and count:
six beers left in his twelve pack.

There were nine in there
just a few minutes ago.
How...? Did he have them
shoved up his ***?
Maybe that robe has pockets...

I’m going on ten months
as a teetotaler,
and that *******
cardboard box
is always sitting there,
shiny cans winking at me
as I grab an apple
or a piece of leftover chicken.

I hope this doesn’t turn into
another one of those days
where he crashes face first
into the coffee table,
and I pick him up off the floor
and guide him to bed
as his nose drips blood
on the carpet,
and on me.

The phase is turning grey,
I’m afraid....
Unlike the pink hair
of the woman at the store,
about mid forties, like me.

Only half is pink actually,
the other half shaved smooth.
Earlobes dangle, stretched
like basketball hoops.

Her teenage son tags along,
appearing quite normal.
His rebellious phase
will include heavy doses of church
and young republicans meetings,
screaming “Libtard!” at his mom.

As for me, I still maintain
my long mane,
brown with grey strays now,
hippie on the outside,
misanthrope within,
my outrage at life’s injustice
and people’s greed
still intact, though I lack
a revolutionary spirit
and I despise crowds
so marching in the street
is out, though I applaud
those who do.

I squat here and there,
usually online,
but occasionally
at family gatherings,
leaving steaming piles
of opinion and rage
for white shirted men
in shiny shoes to step in.

At the grassy park
where I sit scribbling,
dogs on leashes
are leaving piles of their own.
The owners walk them
clockwise on a paved loop,
sticking mostly to the path.

I shed sandals,
stroll barefoot in the dewy grass,
my eyes scanning
for squishy land mines,
walking counterclockwise,
a true badass.

"Wipe that smirk
off your face!"
You will hear this often,
though you are not
aware of smirking.
"Lose the attitude!"
Though you do not speak.

In your face
and body language,
they read their own
not quite swallowed lies,
their self betrayal
in the service of a futile
and shallow existence.

Their own misgivings reflected
in your rebellious twinkle
and shuffle,
must be erased.

Their hands reach
from schoolbooks,
from newspapers,
from billboards and screens,
with gleaming spoonfuls
of stinking horseshit,
their lips humming airplane sounds,
"Mmmmm-mmm."

Keep your lips pinched
in disgust, boys and girls,
and seek out
your own brand of futility.