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.

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.

I'm sitting on the curb,
I see a rusty old bolt
laying on the pavement.

I pick it up,
turn it and feel
its heft,
its cold edges,
my fingers
now stained orange.

I run fingertips
over threads
still sharp,
not stripped.

It once held
something together,

and still could.

We talk about time
as if it were a space
we travel through....
if I could just get across this space
this empty room that seems
so daunting but the wall
on the other side keeps
moving away from me
and even if I reached it, then what?

And sometimes the room is not empty
but filled with light, shadows, reflections,
things my own paintbrush has created,
childhood beasts that cause me to jump
or hide even though I vaguely remember
painting them myself.

If you have ever been my friend
and in that room we are still laughing
and joyful, or you have been
my enemy and I am still wrestling
with you there,
then please tell me
where you end
and I begin.

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.

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.

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.

Always pretended
at being a stone,
especially when crawling
on the floor yet again,
searching cracks
for broken pieces,
never quite finding them all.

But now here it is,
here it really is.
I've pretended it
into existence.

When I can't imagine
sitting across from you
(whoever you are)
at a little table
ever again,
and feeling the tickles
of tiny currents flowing
between us.

The invisible strands
that tug at me
as I lean closer
smiling, laughing,
and searching your eyes
for traces
of what I've lost.

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

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

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

and who's to say...
maybe some tremor
of what you called you
may wield the sceptre
instead of the pick and shovel
on your next orbit

but what you call you
won't be there

don't hope for that

and should this trouble us?
we're barely here
when we're here

we drive this highway
our eyes fixed
on the faraway horizon
or shooting glances
in the rearview
while the low hanging fruit
of the orchard whizzes by
just outside the window

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.

We sat on a bench
by the river's edge,
talking and laughing,
then you reached -
toward me I thought -
and with your finger
tore a tangled spider web
between the slats,
freeing a little grey moth
caught there
beating frantic wings.

It perched on your finger
a moment,
until you held it aloft
and gently blew,
smiling as it flew.

I breathed an extra breath
as something in me
soared.

We sat at a table
after work,
drinking pitchers of beer,
telling stories,
and venting our disgust
with the *******
in charge of
much of our lives.

He spoke up,
for a change,
a normally quiet,
mild mannered
worker bee of a man,
and said,
“I’ve got a lot of venom
built up in me.”

We stared into
our beer glasses,
no one saying anything,
except two of the women,
who laughed at him,
then continued talking.

I’ll never forget how his face
looked like a mountain *****
stripped after a landslide,
the naked granite beneath
cracked and grey,
standing silent after
the roar of debris,
but still seeming to quiver
as though a second layer
might soon peel
and fall.

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.

Your daydreams
were my first drug
long before the bottle.
Even now, you ******
with fantasies of revenge,
the perfect woman,
world peace.
Is there an “I” without you?
Are you even “mine”?
You seem to believe
you could survive without me,
that you are immortal, omniscient.
Sometimes you are a friend,
more often an enemy,
like an abusive spouse
I cannot leave.
Master and slave,
liar and prophet,
giving with one hand
stealing my life with the other.
The lies you tell
about what others think
are the worst.
You con me into believing
your story is true.
Occasionally I catch you
at what you are doing.
I shine a light on you,
and you disappear.
You’re nowhere and everywhere,
I hear your laughter,
mocking the oracle’s injunction
to “know thyself.”

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 ***.

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.

covered with drywall dust
and shards of glass
one knuckle split
dripping red

some grains of sand
nestled inside
from a foggy grey
New England beach
where we once stood
gazing at our ship's torn sails
flapping in the wind

they'll find them
when they find me

they'll find them
spilling from the creases
of my still warm hand
as it opens
slowly

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.

Don’t hide
behind those drapes, boy...
come on out here,
let us have a look at you.

Does he do any tricks?

Shake his hand, son.
Don’t be shifty eyed
or stare at your shoes,
they’ll think
you’re hiding something.

Speak up!
Be a man!
Stand up for yourself,
shout the other guy down.

Maybe you can be
president someday.

All you do is sit
in your room,
playing with blocks,
reading books...

Why don’t you play
with the other children?
Get out there in the crowd!

What are you doing
roaming in those woods
all by yourself?

What will you do
with all those books you read?

Come on...
we’re going to town,
gonna do some shopping.

I know it’s loud,
but you’ll get used to it.

Gotta be prepared
for car horns,
jackhammers,
gunfire...

What are you doing
over there?
Don’t turn that over.
Leave it be.

And smile for the camera!
Come over here,
into the light.
Don't skulk around
in the shadows
like our guilty conscience.

Aww...it’s all right.
You’re just a bit cracked.
Here...a little putty,
a little paint,
and look how you shine!

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!

After the yelling,
my fist through the sheetrock,
you emptying the loaded dish rack
onto the kitchen linoleum,

and how we glared
at each other, gladiators
breathing heavily,

you stopped me
at the door
carrying my suitcase
and teary eyed
asked,

“Do you still love me?”

I stared at you in silence,
then put down my bag,
and held you
with that unspoken “Yes”
burning in my chest.

Walking the usual sidewalk,
but something’s different...
could I always see
the mountains from here?

I hear the buzz of chainsaws,
and across the street,
see men working in hard hats,
and the bulldozers,
the piles of trees,
the yellow metal claw
digging at an intransigent stump
two hundred years thick,
a sapling in colonial days.

Unobstructed,
Mt. Rose stands naked
to the west,
all her snow melted,
save one small
teardrop shaped patch
in a shadow near the summit.

The view is glorious,
but it won't be long
until new warehouses
painted in earth tones
block this mountain view
more thoroughly
than oaks and elms
ever did.

But people will have jobs
for the construction phase,
and later shipping
cardboard boxes of stuff
to other people
who desperately need it,
treasure tossed on doorsteps
by overworked delivery men.

For now,
I enjoy the view.

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.”

Not without the help of others,
each of us builds a fortress,
like building walls
around a desert mirage,
or a mist rising,
evaporating in sunlight.

And the world teaches us
we must guard these walls
that surround our
misty treasure.

Some great souled men
have claimed
that the walls
are not really there.

Some even lived
as though this were true.
Usually they were killed
for daring to do so.

They say
if we sit still
and silent long enough
to tame this wild ox
of a mind that yanks us
from one thing
to another,

we will see this truth.

I long to see it.
Sometimes I think I glimpse it
for a moment,
but then it vanishes,
just like that mirage,
just like that mist I defend,
with my sword drawn,
standing at the gate.

Kicking a dark pebble along
in early slanting light,
it tumbles oblong
clattering and jumping
across pavement cracks.

A final kick
and it crashes
into the bright red curb,
splitting in two
along some invisible fissure.

The jagged pieces
rock momentarily
on their rounded backs
like overturned turtles,
then lie still.

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.

I was fifteen,
Jersey boy, displaced
from green suburbia
to a sagebrush sea.

I tried to drop my accent,
got a job at a horse ranch
shoveling ****,
wore cowboy boots.

Finally made a friend
in that dirt road valley,
taught me to sideways slide
and countersteer,
joyriding his mother's car
down rough roads
we shouldn’t be on,
sparks flying,
rocks bouncing
off the undercarriage.

And he had guns too,
pistols and rifles.
We hiked up into the hills,
shot at rusty
abandoned cars,
empty beer cans
or anything
that crawled
slithered or hopped.

Killing that jackrabbit
was a lucky shot.
I got him right through the eye
with a 22, on the fly,
just for fun.

We laughed
and high fived
as that black crater
in his head
did not stare at us
from the dusty ground.

I was in.

We chant our allegiance to it
in shouted slogans,
and fight ****** battles
under its banner,
ironically chained to it
as we are to many other
shadowy and ghostly things.

But never has treasure
so desired
been so eagerly
given away.

Primitive man
gave his to gods
of sun, sky, and earth.

We give ours
to elected tyrants,
weak and corrupt old men
made powerful
by our faith.

To imaginary boundaries
we lock ourselves inside,
to roles we play,
to straitjacket ideologies
we writhe in,
foaming at the mouth.

There are slaves to
their own bodies,
or the bodies of others,
and ******
for the envy of neighbors,
or strangers.

Collared submissives
who bark like dogs
and beg for the whip.

Workaholics, alcoholics,
pill poppers,
shopping addicts,
and spiritual junkies.

In a thousand ways,
we hand it over,
between thumb and forefinger
like a piece of chewing gum
drained of its flavor.
“Here...take this.
I’m done with it.”

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.

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

He wants your madness
but at a safe distance,
like spending the night
on weekends.

Seven years now,
and no proposal
on the horizon.
That sun has set.

You’re not getting
what you hoped
out of this life,
no matter how
you squeeze and wring
that cloth.

Not even working two jobs,
buying a new car,
and the house next door,
rented to Bay Area refugees
at inflated prices
is making it happen.

So the hole gets filled
with clothes and shoes
still tagged a year later,
perfume and jewelry never worn,
dishes that won't fit
in the cupboard,
furniture that won’t fit
in the house,
but sits in the garage
thick with dust,
alongside piles of hardware
for half finished,
abandoned projects.

Jungles of potted plants and flowers
thirst in the backyard,
scorched by the summer sun.

Your housemates see
the yard long
credit card receipts
on the kitchen counter
or the coffee table,
and wonder
about the sudden rent increase
you forced upon them.

They smile
and walk tiptoe
when you’re around,
groan silently when you ask,
“Can you guys help me
carry this thing inside?”

it's monday
and all across america
we stand in the cold
outside office buildings
and warehouses
shuffling our feet
waiting for someone
to unlock the door

or sit in break rooms
drinking coffee
and waiting to punch the clock
our lips as grimly sealed
as the grey winter sky
or forcing smiles and small talk
but all with the same
bewildered eyes
wondering
how how how
******* it
is it monday already...
and where did the weekend go?

all those Sunday evening glances
at the clock
and counting the hours left
til bedtime
or the morning alarm
as though we could catch it
in the act
with its thieving little hands
in the cookie jar...

useless

and then awakening at 2 a.m.
and again at 3
hearing faintly
the clomp of boots
of an advancing army
conquering our territory
piece by piece

Step outside from the cool
and feel a heaviness
to the desert air,
a rare bit of moisture
that brings out scents
of pine and sage
and garden flowers.

White cloud tops billow
high into the blue,
shades of grey underneath,
but no sheets of rain yet fall
against distant brown hills,
no jagged light cracks
like a whip
across the eggshell sky.

At the park I stop to sit
beneath a pine tree.
Three crows glide in,
land in the branches above
cawing noisily,
peering black eyed down
through olive needles
and prickly cones.

No breeze tickles
skin or sways grass
as the clouds darken
and swell.

And I wait.

And the crows wait.

And the desert,
finally,
outwaits us all.

After several knocks
I opened the stall door
and there she sat,
folded in half and snoring,
head on her knees,
jeans and *******
pulled down to her ankles,
oblivious to the gift
her boyfriend had left
after unsuccessfully trying
to wake her:

a single red rose
in a vase at her feet.

From behind the bar
I'd seen her stagger
into the bathroom.
He'd run to the store
after asking if I'd watch her
while he was gone.

She was a working girl
he'd rescued from one of the brothels,
and they were getting married soon,
but he was uncertain...

He'd returned proudly
with the flower,
asked where she was,
and I pointed.

A few minutes later
he'd walked out,
said she'll probably
come around soon,
tell her I'm at that bar
across the street.

He'd gone out the door,
and here I stood,
in a women's bathroom stall,
me and the shadow
between her thighs,
and the rose,
and several petals
it had dropped
on the ***** tile floor.

I sighed, bent down,
picked up the vase
with one hand,
touched her shoulder
with the other,
and gently shook her
until she stirred.

"Take another drink!"
he'd command
in his mellow baritone
when I began whining over
the betrayals and treachery
he'd probably seen
a thousand times.

I first met him
as I was lugging boxes
up the stairs
into that shabby
rooming house,
home to eight of us
castaway bachelors.

He and I became friends,
fifty years between us,
and we'd sit
in his cramped dingy room
lined with bookshelves,
drinking whiskey
talking about philosophy
and telling stories
of battles fought.

Mine were of
drunken nights,
bar fights,
trashed apartments
and fingernail marks
from skirmishes
with crazy women
with wildcat eyes.

His were of Normandy
and his army buddy
ripped by shrapnel
bleeding out in seconds
as he watched helplessly.
His voice cracked in the telling
as I shrank in my chair.

And I remember now
that he wrote poetry.
Poems I didn't understand
but how could I?
They were written
in bombs, bullets and blood,
and camping under bridges,
pedaling north along the coast
on a rusty bicycle,
after leaving a mental hospital
when the war was over.

He's dead ten years now.
When I last
said goodbye,
we shook hands
standing in the hallway
of that sagging old house.

He looked at me, said
"There's no easy way
to do this, kid."
Then he turned
and walked into his room,
closed the door
he usually left open.

I still have a poem of his,
written down somewhere
I can't find....

I'm rambling now...
there's no easy way
to end this either.

I hear only
static from the tower
muffled voices
see only
grey clouds below

I grip the stick
with both hands
knuckles white
swallow hard
at a lump
that won’t go down

and point the nose
of my little craft
as I dive into the storm
hoping for a runway
or even solid ground

****** into the desert sky
from sage leaves
and pine needles
from lizards sunning
themselves on rocks
and raptors preying on them
from above

and from us
walking by the river
and all the people
on the sidewalks
and city streets
sweating and breathing

from the last exhalations
of dying grandparents
in hospital beds
and later
from the crematory chimney

it rises
once part of us, and
what is left of them
and mingles
enfolding dust
in its crystalline embrace
and falling softly white
over mountains shivering
in howling winter winds

they cannot hear
the laughter of children
resurrecting them as snowmen
with cold red fingers
later abandoning them
in the meadow
under the merciless sun
soaking muddy green fields
of springtime

they percolate through soil
into channels
small and large
and finally down the canyon
roaring grey green
and foaming white
over rapids
through eddies
swirling into a pool
cupped in a grey granite palm
ancient yet smooth
as newborn skin

where I dip my hands
shatter that harsh yellow eye
into a thousand fireflies
and splash cool water
on my face

earful of mosquito buzz
disturbs reverie
a wave of the hand
brings silence

then
the quick sting
and slap to the neck

tiny mangled body
wings twitching

a drop of blood
trickles down palm's
lifeline crease
wiped on pant leg
forgotten

until
it swells
and itches

as we scratch
with nibbled fingernails
whispering curses

I was sitting
at the front desk
of the gym where I worked,
when my friend Bobby
walked in.

We chatted awhile,
until he grimaced,
stepped back from the counter,
lifted a leg
and cut a loud ****
of the earth shaking variety.

“Jesus!” I said,
as we both giggled
like schoolboys.

Just then we both heard
the click click
of high heels coming
out of the locker room
and down the hallway.

He looked at me, wide eyed,
grabbed his gym bag,
and bolted
into an adjacent room.

Leaving me there,
in all of It.
****.

And it was the one
I feared it might be,
she of the goddess face
and statuesque figure,
whom we both coveted.

There she was,
click clicking her way
toward me,
right into It.

She smiled, said
“Have a nice day...”
“Day” trailing off
as she reached the
cloud’s odiferous perimeter.

She snorted somewhat,
looking at me
with furrowed brow,
then turned her head
and click clicked quickly
out the door.

I sighed,
hung my head in defeat,
but was unable
to suppress
a creeping grin.

Well played,
you *******.

Many times
I have felt the history
of fang and claw
written in my blood
rising to greet
the civilized world.

Triggered by
body language,
a certain look
or snicker,
a trespass
over an imaginary line.

It rises, a vibration
hovering in my chest,
gurgling low in my throat
like a bear growling.

And I am taken
out of my body
in a flash
to some psychic
killing field
where my hands
are around your throat
as I spit out the words,
“Laugh now!"

I breathe,
and return,
smiling at you
tight lipped
over what is left
of my canines,
devouring you
with my gaze instead.

I am human,
not animal.
I tell myself this.
I tell the vibrations
this truth,
hoping they’ll remember
next time.

But they have
a truth of their own,
and no ears
for mine.

Who am I to say?
Depending on the darkness
of this new age being born,
they may yet be a blessing.

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.

grow thicker skin
like us
they say

also...
calm down
snap out of it
and let it go

advice
from friends
who seem to think
I'm someone else

they love him
this someone else
they've painted
this potential me
created in their image

while the flesh me
fails to explain
the experience
of this pulsing
straightjacketed
brain

the drop of errant blood
that pollutes the rest

what it's like
treading water with
concrete shoes

and how I tiptoe
like a cat burglar
around double helix
spiral staircases
trying to avoid
the mischievous child
who hides in dark corners
lobbing sticks of dynamite
in my path

I explain all this
but they are not appeased

they trumpet laughter
through their scaly trunks

I turn and walk
out the door into
my daily hailstorm
unprotected

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.”

To be more like the machines
and gadgets that surround us,
the newest incarnation of gods
spun from nightmare threads
of loss and starvation
then slavishly served.

To have a memory
like a video camera,
to never be lost
like a GPS map,
to be an efficient little worker
steady as a robot arm,
to crush enemy bones
as relentlessly as a bulldozer,
to weather insults
as dispassionately
as your virtual assistant,
and be as immortal
as photos in cyberspace,
forever smooth cheeked,
outlasting any marble statue.

Not forgetting
birthdays and car keys,
stumbling down dead end
hotel hallways,
limping on a sprained ankle,
calling in sick or hungover
bedridden with shaking,
nose broken by a drunken
bar brawl head ****,
or crushed by that woman
just rolling her eyes,
and walking away.

And not this
trembling skeleton draped
in withering flesh clicking,
ticking like a broken clock,
springs uncoiling,
winding down.

We scramble and race,
controlling and perfecting
and finally break ourselves
against the steel idols
of our own creation,
like John Henry
hammering his drill.

I found the secret to happiness
he tells me

his cheeks are red
and his left eye blackened
his arms a patchwork
of purple bruises
I take the bait and ask

I dont think anymore
he says
Ever?
If I do I slap
or pinch myself

A moment of silence
while I consider this
and then
Slap!

I flinch at the sound
look over
as he turns toward me
grinning
a tiny crack
in his lower lip
leaking blood

He does seem happy though

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.