I’m leaning against
a white fence
looking at a bare spot
where the paint has
chipped away

I think:
someone should paint this

as my hand reaches out
and my thumbnail
peels another large slab
exposing the grain

and I smile

You cannot shout
loudly enough
at the news on TV
or punch your keyboard
hard enough
with stiff index fingers
like little fists

to mold the world
to your desired shape

maybe
you can squint
narrowly enough
to glimpse your own countenance
in the pages of sacred books

But can you glare
intensely enough
to make those you despise
vanish?

And wouldn't you be lonely
if you could?

because it feels good
hating people

it’s more fun
and easier
than loving them

especially from a distance

building enemies of straw
and whacking them
like piñatas
with your vocal bludgeon

just as a child piles blocks
to knock them down
and cackle
at his destructive power

then pile them again

but he's aware
it’s a game

The neighbor's dog paces,
rope dangling from his collar,
dragging on the dusty ground.

When his master
pulls into the driveway
he sniffs and scratches at the fence,
whining and yelping.

The car door slams, and he
anticipates being let off the leash,
jumping and spinning in circles,
tongue out and tail wagging.

The man goes in the house
and does not come out,
and the whining and yelping
intensifies into a series of
beseeching barks.

My ears reject the sound,
my mouth wants to scream
“Shut the **** up!”
And my hands want
to clamp his snout shut.

It’s like hearing
the whining echoes
of impossible desires
as they pace the earth
inside my cave,
packing the soil
hard as cement.

He used to sit
with legs crossed
and hands folded
in his lap
for hours,
staring at the ticking clock.

One day I asked why.
“It’s all there is,” he said.

Then I heard
he decorated
that smug round face
and its Roman numerals
with blood, brain
and skull fragments
as those relentless hands
spun their slow waltz
in silence.

His handwritten note
said only,
“I got bored.”

To dam the river’s flow
he sat in empty rooms
without books, TV, or radio
staring at silent walls.

Drove two lane
country roads
searching for
slow moving trucks
to get stuck behind.

Went to the bank
and the grocery store
at the busiest times
to spend hours
waiting in line.

Passed the time
with people he itched
to get away from,
and married a woman
he despised.

One day he peeked
behind the dam
to find that his reservoir
had evaporated
and a parched landscape
of cracked earth remained.

He knelt and grasped
a clump of dried mud,
held it up,
staring openmouthed
as it crumbled
in his hand.

Now when I look at you,
I see your roses
untended,
burning in the sun,
petals falling to the ground
withered and brown.

The sun is my co-conspirator
and I cast no shadow
as we watch them burn.

I do not smile,
but nor will I spill
a drop of water
or even spit
on their thorny stems.

As though etched
on a tablet of stone,
this image persists,
and I have no hammer
to smash it to bits.

A political meme is posted,
it enters my brain
through my eyes
as I skeptically squint
and grimace
and even groan
when the ******* bell
goes ding-ding-ding!

If the pile is big enough,
and stinks badly enough,
I break out my shovel...

After a bit of digging,
I post my nuanced reply
complete with links
debunking yet another
specious assertion
or one dimensional caricature.

I smile, imagining
how dazzled they will all be
by my obvious insight
and wisdom!

Then I sit, and wait,
as crickets chirp
across thousands of miles
of fiber optic cables

and my friend list
shrinks...

Remember...
when you meet,
and you’re sitting
at a little table with her,
chatting and laughing,
making eyes over martini glasses
or coffee cups,
and she starts talking
about “the others”,
what they did,
what she did,
and you’re telling yourself
whatever it is
you’re telling yourself...
as you chew on her story,
swallowing parts of it,
hiding others
under your tongue.

Remember:
you ARE
one of
“The Others.”

Taste that
on your tongue
for awhile.
Try not to choke.

Most days I believe
I have fooled them well enough,
even while I stumble
through my lines,
and the body language
feels forced and off cue.

Though there are moments
that their eyes
flash mirrors of doubt my way,
like white hot spotlights.

Then I return home,
catch a glimpse of myself
in my car window,
and see my dayworn disguise
running down my visage
in pale streaks.

I go inside,
lock the door,
close the blinds,
and wash my face
in the bathroom sink,
staring at myself
in the mirror.

And as I scrub away
the vanilla mask,
every nerve sighs.

Sometimes I wish you would
just....go....away,
and leave me
like a zombie,
an automaton,
or a herd animal
grazing in the field,
unconcerned about
brewing storms,
impending droughts,
or slaughter.

But no...

The voice
is not mine.
Can’t be.
It’s as though
my brain sprouted
a chattering mouth
of its own.

I’d like to glue your
******* lips shut
when you remind me,
again,
of how I really blew it
with that woman,
and that one...
and all the bridges
I’ve reduced to ash,
marooned now
on this rocky island.

And how future paths
will resemble past ones,
dead end disasters
littered with scraps
of twisted humanity.

By the way,
(you whisper)
that itchy mole
between your shoulder blades
that you can’t reach?
Melanoma.
Those dizzy spells.
A stroke.
It’s coming...

Please *******,
so I can enjoy
a half hour of solitude
sitting in the sun,
or even just taste
a single bite
of my sandwich.

But then,
come back to me,
when I need you...
like now,
and help me write this ****.

I don’t understand
why sometimes
I run and hide
in motel rooms
with women and bottles.

Or why the sound of laughter
makes me cringe,
or why my head throbs
listening to small talk.

Or why I dream
of sitting on telephone wires
or crawling through dark tunnels
with no light on the other side.

Or hug the ground
feeling with fingertips
for the birth pangs
of a mountain
on the Earth’s dark side.

Or listen to the static
between radio stations
listening for the music
in the white noise.

Or look for tomorrow’s cliches
among the mad scrawls
of yesterday’s castaways.

Or leave good women and jobs
because I cannot breathe,
only to run off
and hold my breath
somewhere else.

I hate this restlessness,
but isn’t that
what life is?

The restless itch
of the cosmos
******* itself,
and we the blood flowing
from the fingernail marks
on its back.

I walk and talk
as they do,
feeling the earth
beneath my feet,
wishing I meant
the words I speak.

I see them
on the other side
of the chasm,
bottomless
and unbridgeable,
laughing and smiling,
waving me over.

They don't see it at all.

All I can do is watch them,
grit my teeth,
and shake my head no,
as I mouth the words
I can't, I can't...
and they laugh,
and nod yes...
yes...of course you can.

They can't see it,
so they laugh.

The sound pelts me
like hailstones
and I wither inside
as I stifle a scream,
wanting not to see it either,
wanting to gouge my eyes out,
and believe
in the solid ground
between us.

I am not sure
which of us is hallucinating...

I curse the moon
for rising tonight,
the audacity
to shine its sliver of light
across my darkness.

May it be swallowed up
by the night
as I am
by this bed
and this blanket
pulled over my head.

I used to think about you
and hold my pillow
as it molded itself
to my shape.

But no more -
there was too much hope
in that pillow,
the way it fit against me
so perfectly.

The hard stare,
the stiff upper lip,
the cocky bark,
and the smart *** reply
elevated to an art form
are old habits by now.

Polished by years
of abuse from guys like himself,
like cons in a prison yard
exploiting every crack
in a newbie's facade.

He flips the radio on
while stopped at a red
on the drive home
from the job site,
after a day of kicking around
his new apprentice,
with the soft hands
and boyish face.

And turns to goosebumps
hearing John Lennon's voice
sing the long forgotten lines
of a song about the working man.

A drop forms in his eye
as he listens,
and he blinks like he’s trying
to **** it back in,
but it falls,
runs down his left cheek
like a tiny river
across the desert.

He angrily wipes it
with his sleeve,
(another old habit)
switches off the radio,
and shifts in his seat.

Then he looks around to see
if anyone saw him do it,
but the people in their cars
are all staring straight ahead
waiting for the green.

He walks the earth
placing the minutes
in his pockets
like shiny pebbles
plucked from a river,
and grows heavier,
dragging his feet,
but still bending
to pick them up.

He holds them aloft,
inspects their color,
runs calloused fingertips
over their polished surface,
then stuffs them in
with the others.

He shuffles along
like a man twice his age,
pockets overflowing.

The way we spend our money
after the days and weeks,
the years served
in dead end jobs,
inside buildings
like grey prisons...

It’s like we want to get rid of it
as quickly as possible,
the same way
we wanted those hours,
those days
on the job
gone,
like bedbugs or the clap,
or some flea infested stray
scratching at the door.

Behind locked doors,
walls and fences,
in alarmed houses
in neighborhoods
with guard shacks.

With killers behind bars,
lions in cages
and sharks in tanks,
our fingers touch the glass
and do not tremble.

Behind gun barrels
or peace signs,
mountains of cash
or absurd ideologies.

Behind beliefs about self,
the world, reality,
and other people,
and clinging to those who agree.

And in inner chambers
and dark crawl spaces
hidden from shifting light,
we seek what we cannot have.

Not when the poison seeds
hide in us waiting to sprout
and rip us to shreds.

And yet,
we sprouted from these
same seeds like saplings
from rotting stumps.

My BMX was department store,
black and yellow
like a bumblebee,
and weighed a ton
compared to their
alloy framed bikes.
They made fun of the kickstand
and the chain guard.

I was the class runt
and wore hand me downs
and rolled up jeans
sometimes with patches,
more fodder for jokes.

In the summer we camped
in the Adirondacks,
and in the fall
at the bus stop
or in school
they talked about trips
to France or Spain.

I had a fist fight
with an older kid
down the block
who lived in a house
with a swimming pool
when he said my house
looked like a barn.

I think I still see the world
through the tint
of those dollar green glasses
they made me wear.

And I shout down
the echoes of those voices
that condemn others with less,
and me with them.

But I got tough taking beatings
from bigger older boys.
And my legs got strong
pedaling that heavy bike uphill.

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.

I ate their seeds
swallowed some
spit out the rest
waited til they opened
my cage and flew
branch to branch
town to town
and into a few windows
I confused with sky.

A few nests
along the way
lived in a building
or two that burned
and escaped
singed but not ashen.

No Phoenix here
just a solo blackbird
pecking for scraps
in parking lot cracks
scars hidden
from sunlight’s gaze
under dark feathers.

Now I only fly sometimes
gliding not too high
on black wings
with rainbow sheen
I sing my songs
a bit hoarse
and off key.

Spinning my wheels
on a long drive
next mile mark
next town
next valley
or bug splattered
windshield horizon
on my mind

Grass and trees
pass in a sleepy haze
until the thump-thump
of a pothole jars
half lidded eyes
open wide

Ahead I see
the red smear
of mangled flesh

The crow flies
just in time
as this steel
four wheel
predator bears down
on his meal

I veer left
straddle death
tires singing hymns
to the highway

From a mirror none can see
his reflection stares
a starving copy of myself
with sunken eyes
and dark hollow cheeks.

He picks at old scabs
on his pockmarked face
while my hands
remain by my sides
fists clenched.

His eyes twitch
grey lips whispering
dark prophecies
while my mouth
remains silent.

He's like a tweaker
or a dope fiend
but no pill or powder
or god filled syringe
eases his jones.

His pleading eyes stare
as I turn my back
and walk away
whispers trailing behind
like a comet's tail.

We forgive people
in movies for deeds
that in real life
we’d lock up in prison
and swallow the key.

We weep over deaths
we see on cable news
while loved ones die
and our eyes remain
dry as dust.

And we smile at children
causing mischief
in some television town
while shouting at our own
to stop blocking the screen.

Across from the plaza
where the homeless
and street people usually gather
on concrete steps
by the Truckee River
stands an old stone church
stained glass angels
stare down from the belfry
roof whitewashed in pigeon ****

Today their unblinking eyes gaze
not on the poor and desperate
but on smiling families
a tilt a whirl
a bounce house
a mini carnival for children
happy squeals fill the air
vendors set up white tents
along the swollen river
a band begins playing
as a crowd gathers

I sit on a metal bench to rest
notice a bar welded
across the middle
recently added
dividing it in two
a clear message
for sleepy eyes

Further downriver
away from the festival
the eight dollar microbrews
the bassy hip hop sounds
the mingled food smells
two panhandlers sit inside the "B"
of the giant "BELIEVE" sculpture
across from the Virginia Street bridge
eating plastic wrapped sandwiches
passing a bottle in a brown paper bag

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.

The hands have vanished.
The puppets strewn carelessly,
laying about, sleeping,
as puppets are lazy when
no one is pulling their strings.

One awakes, tugs, and finding
her ******* ropes slack,
began to sing and dance.
Her voice awakens the others.
Some join her, singing,
dancing, celebrating.

Some begin climbing
their ropes, wondering
where they end.
Others play jump rope,
or swing from the rafters
competing to see
who can go higher.

A few cut their ropes
and dive to their deaths
from the stage.
One gathers discarded ropes
of the dead and builds a fence,
stands inside and says,
“This space is mine.”
Some nod agreement,
while others hop the fence,
swinging their ropes menacingly.

Still others use their ropes
to tie others tight,
or even bind themselves
together, or separately.
A few make nooses
and hang themselves,
while others sit,
watching the show,
smiling, laughing,
eating popcorn.

We show off our new gadgets
with smiles, a strut in our step.
I ask a question, it answers.
It tells me what street to take
when there's a traffic jam.
I hold up my phone,
It tells me the song, artist.
App for this, app for that.

Wow, that's so cool!

Ride in the new car
grin as horsepower
pushes us back in our seats.
(Hope I can afford the payments)

Shoot the new rifle,
smooth trigger, pull it
fast as you can.
Those hollow points
leave a big hole.
I hope someone tries breaking in.
Yeah...grinning, chests puffed.

All these extensions
of our humanity,
of eye, ear and brain
hands and feet
fists, elbows and teeth.

It's as though
we grew them ourselves
out of our own bodies
like seedlings,
watered and fed.

We do all this
like a two year old
***** training,
Look Mom!
But at least he made that
**** all by himself.

He follows the trail
crossing grey pink granite
glacier polished long ago,
now crumbling under boots.

Pretzel twisted trees
entwine, half alive and dead,
growing straight out of
the high Sierra rooftop,
winter wind scoured.

Springtime runoff rivulets,
tiny waterfalls
over mossy boulders,
snowfields still melting
in late April.

He smiles, glad he's
made the trip today.
Too much of life
spent trapped inside
a worried mind.

He steps to a ledge, looks down,
crows circle below.
The knees shiver a bit
but he stands his ground,
steadies himself, walks on.

Trail narrows,
traverses a steep *****,
granite overhang above.
He stops for a minute,
admires the view.

A shudder, and crack.
He looks up, sees
the tombstone grey slab
hurtling down.

No scream of protest,
no life flashing,
only an instant of surprise
before darkness,
blessed.

Gods in the great marketplace
thunder down shiny aisles
shopping cart war chariots
wheels wobble and screech
scarring waxed white tiles.

Collide with metallic clash
as child in basket screams
they race toward
piles of heaven on sale
19.99, or two for one.

The gods at war
not for the last morsel of food
but for the last discount
TV or gaming console
on holy Black Friday.
Thanksgiving now just
a day of feasting and rest
before the annual battle.

Sacrifices must be made:
a child trampled, a neck tazed,
eyes pepper sprayed.
Minimum wage slaves
hungry for holiday pay
crushed at the gates
upon altars of GDP.

Wide eyed crowds stand
hands held high, screens aglow
filming the spectacle of combat,
the shoving, the victors
wrestling precious boxes
like battle standards
from grasping fingers.

Let the world adopt
our customs, kneel at
our sacred altars.
Look how mighty
we have become!

It’s Reno, Nevada 2018
his landlord knocks
tells him there’ll be
a rent increase next month.
“How much?”
“500.”
“What? That’s almost 50%!”
“I know, I know...it’s Tesla
and all the Californians.”
“****...I don’t know if I can pay that....”
“Sorry about this.  
It’s just the Market, you know?”

At work the next morning,
as he’s putting on his hard hat,
strapping on his tool belt,
he tells two coworkers
the story, they shrug, say
“Yeah...it’s ******.  
But that’s the Market.
What can you do?”
“Doesn’t it just seem
like greed?” asks the man.
One chuckles, says
“Maybe.  But you’d do it
if you could.”

After a long day,
he needs to relax,
so he pays his
favorite ****** a visit.
She’s on her knees,
unzipping him, asks
“What’s the matter hon?
You seem tense...”
He tells her.
“It’s the Market.” she says.

As she begins
he thinks, “Jesus.
They all believe in it.
Maybe it’s true...
It’s like The Force in the
Star Wars movies...
and here I thought it was
people, taking advantage
of each other.  But then,
I’m not the brightest....”

She comes up for air,
says “Dude, you’re
not even hard.”
“Sorry.”
“This is taking too long.
Got another guy coming,
unless you got more money?”
“Gave you all I had.”
“Sorry...you’ll have to go.”
“The Market?”
She smiled.
“You know it baby.”

Driving home,
he consoles himself:
“At least jerking off
Is still free, for now.
But who knows?
This Market thing
seems to be everywhere,
like God.”

Thank the gods
you came along
and endured
the beatings, boils
and *****
to leave such morsels behind.
They have fed me
laughter and understanding
on many dark nights
and impossible days.
I hope one day,
to do at least that much,
for some poor *******.

Visiting LA,
I walked past
the no trespassing signs
into your flat little
East Hollywood apartment court,
all the craziness that happened there
now silent, until a tenant barked,
“Hey!  Who you lookin for?”
Who indeed.

I’d like to say
I wish I’d met you,
but it just wouldn’t be true.
I’ll bet you were a real
pain in the ***.

I look at that class photo, Kindergarten
and wonder what is left
of those faces and bodies and souls
as we, now nearing mid life
are awakened by harsh alarm bells
on the east or west coast
or somewhere in between
and we swarm out into the streets,
down into subway tunnels or onto buses
or hop in our cars and brave freeway madness,
faces now lined and wrinkled
like clocks and dollar bills.
I wonder if anything at all is left,
or if there's anything sacred
in this routine.  It's hard to see, but
I still look for it, as I weave
among cars on the freeway, 70 plus,
toward someplace I'd rather not be.

In their lust
for a truth grasped
only in their minds
they sacrifice life
and become evil.
I do not want
to be a revolutionary.
Or maybe just a quiet one:
doing less than others,
living more simply,
doing without
certain things they say
I must desire
to be fully human.
People do too much anyway.
And the more they try
to fix things
the worse it becomes.
Imagine the consequences
of an ethos of laziness!
Could it possibly be worse
than the path we’ve chosen?

She worked hard,
had a couple of rentals now,
and it seemed reasonable.
Rents were rising,
why not cash in?
Her friends said,
“Good for you.”
“That’s smart.”
“You deserve it.”
They can afford it,
she thought.
Or if not, work more,
get a second job,
find another place.

He got the email,
late that night,
and wished he hadn’t seen it.
A numbness spread
through his chest,
there would be no sleep.
“That’s a 40% increase...
how can she do this?
We were friends for
like five years before
I became her tenant...”

It’s morning and he’s
red eyed, exhausted
and running late,
“Get the **** out of my way, you ****!”
Weaving in and out,
“Can’t be late,
can’t get fired, not now.”
And every other driver’s day,
is made just a little worse.

It continues,
the decision makers
changing direction
like a flock of sparrows,
one following the other
not because they must,
but because they can.
It is rational, after all
to seek one’s own self interest.

And the people are wondering
how they will afford to live.
“Why is this happening?”
Angry drivers on the road,
angry shoppers in the market.

He thinks, “Maybe I’ll
get a roommate.  Might not
be so bad, having somebody
around for a change.”
Many others will do the same.
Like that same flock of sparrows,
huddling together in the cold.

She’s at a party,
with some other
would be moguls.
They stand around,
congratulating themselves,
wondering why more people
are not like them.
“We did it, anyone can.
Look how we’ve built
this city, made it better
for everyone.”

They keep a certain distance
and eye each other
a bit suspiciously at times.
But that’s ok.
Just part of the price
of admission to the club.

A friend asked me
to a concert last night.  
I like music, but then
I thought about parking,
long lines, crowds,
and obnoxious drunks
and declined.

This morning I awoke
to snow on the ground.
I stepped outside
a purple flower poking up
through the whiteness
shivered along with me.
A neighbor was packing
skis in the car,
hurrying to get
up the mountain
before everyone else.

I wish I wanted
to go skiing,
I thought.
It’s been awhile
since I did that.
But again, I thought about
parking, and long lines,
and hundred plus dollar
lift tickets....

I am getting older.
I have done many things
in my life, enough to know
what things I don’t need
to do anymore.
And honestly, the list
of things I don’t want to do,
is longer than the other list,
the “bucket list”, I guess.

Here is a good place.
I think I’ll sit here
in the sunshine
watch the snow melt,
listen to it drip
from the roof.

Awakened to
about four inches
on the ground, finally.
Sun just rising,
birds celebrating
a little warmth,
everything white
and gleaming.
Life of a snowflake:
evaporate, condensate
crystallize into
a million beautiful forms,
melt and begin again.
Never destroyed.
Aren’t we all
just like this
no matter our opinions.

It happened again
the other day.
I awoke from a nap
and as I often sleep
with my head on my arm
my hand was numb.  
Is this it?
Am I having a stroke?
A heart attack?
I shook my hand furiously
until the feeling returned
to my panicky fingers.
My heart slowed,
I breathed, and lay still.
Mid forties, now,
my awareness of it
no longer merely conceptual.
You really can’t remind yourself
often enough:
You’ll be gone
before you know it.
You’re going back
to what you were.
To fertilize the grass,
feed insects and birds,
fly, and fall as rain,
and be breathed and drank
by those who come after.
All the money and power,
hopes and fears,
memories, identities
and cherished accomplishments
once clenched in tight fists
passing as effortlessly on
as your last breath.
Remember all this,
then choose how to live.
But we don’t.

I am old enough now
to remember
staying in my apartment for hours
afraid of missing your call,
my insides knotted, burning
as I wore the carpet down
with pacing,
smoking each cigarette
down to the filter.

Now I'd just
grab my cell
head out
do whatever.
Progress, but somehow
I only see
what’s been lost.