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.

Last night,
before sleep,
your picture glowed
on my little screen.

You were out with friends
at a concert,
smiling, laughing
and dancing.

Later on,
the pangs I felt
when I saw your face
became a dream gateway
back into your world.

We stood there
listening to the music,
smiling and laughing together
as we did many years before.

Then I put my arm around you
and you pulled away.

You can’t do that,
you said.

It’s true.
I can’t.

We all have that friend...
the endless stream
of cheerful affirmations
across our newsfeed.

Like sunshine
and rainbow farts
blown from
lavender scented
*******.

One read:
“Do what makes you happy.”

I asked,
“What if what makes you happy
is killing and dismembering people,
and storing their organs
in your freezer?”

She’s not my “friend” anymore.

I cringe, reading
some of the memes,
wondering about
the dangers of
that much optimism.

Wondering if I’ll ever
read about this person
in a front page
news story.

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.

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.”

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 ****.

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

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.

A tap on the shoulder,
I swivel in my chair,
leaning back,
fingers stroking chin stubble
as I take her all in.

A pale leg
protrudes through the slit
of her long black dress.

A glance,
and I raise my eyes
to meet her blue gaze.

She ***** her head,
looks quizzically at me,
as she leans back,
strokes her smooth chin
with slender fingers,
mocking my pose,
and whatever expression
I’m wearing on my face.

A dare in her crooked smile.

I shake my head,
like a dog shedding water,
break the spell,
ask how I can help.

With her hand
she beckons me
toward her desk,
her English still too broken,
my Russian even worse,
though I do try sometimes,
as she gives puzzled looks,
and occasionally giggles.

She sits,
points at the problem
on her computer screen,
as I lean over her shoulder
close as I dare,
breathing her in.

And seeing only
the reflection
of our faces together
in the glass.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It’s Art Fest downtown
and I’m wandering
along with many others,
among the white tents
set up in the street,
looking at metal sculptures
like mangled insects,
and paintings of fragmented people
with chopped up faces
and body parts strewn
like puzzle pieces.

A shrill voice
draws my gaze:
a woman with matted blonde hair
sitting by herself on the sidewalk,
having a conversation
with at least two
other people.

“What did you do to my son?
Where is he?”
she yells,
turning to face one,
then the other.

I’m watching this,
unsure what to do,
unable to look away.

People walk past,
headphones in,
looking at their screens.
Two cops show up,
begin talking to her
and for once,
I’m glad they’re around.

Walking on, I turn down
a quiet side street
away from the main drag,
back toward the lot
where my car is parked.

A man covered in
faded blue prison tats
is walking toward me
with long strides,
looking around,
arms swinging in big arcs
with fists balled at the ends,
his jaw working sideways
like a crackhead on a ******.

The back of my neck tingles
as I take my hands
out of my pockets,
remembering the video
I saw last night:
two scumbags in the Bronx
knocking some poor guy
out cold just for kicks,
high fiving as he lay
unconscious in the street.

A few steps away,
he nods, says
“What’s up bro?”
I raise my chin, “Sup.”
We pass.
I throw a glance
back over my shoulder
as he rounds a corner
and disappears.

Here’s my car.
I get in, turn the key,
and roll the **** out of here.

It was good, you know...
in the dream
I could taste the ice cold beer
that fizz and bite
that I miss so much
that pleasant floating sensation
after the first two

I should probably run
to an AA meeting, but...
strangers
cult like eyes
are you new here?
clammy handshakes
held too long
hugs with my nose
inches away from
malodorous armpits

And this morning,
at the coffee shop
stray bottles of beer
on a table
outside the bathroom
leftover from the owner's
weekend bbq

I'm going in to
take a ****....
and my hand
wants to reach for one
no one's looking
take it in there
uncap and guzzle it
lukewarm
big belch afterward

Then I'd be ready for work...

Sat on a stool at a
greasy spoon counter,
being sized up by a
veteran big rig jockey
with road hard eyes.

After hearing my story
he nodded,
stuffed a forkful
of biscuits and gravy in,
and chewing, said:
“What they don’t tell ya at truck school,
driving’s just one kick in the head
after another.”

I nodded,
the way a rookie does.

He wasn’t wrong.

Now, fifteen years later,
I see it’s all like that,
truck driving or not:
one gritted teeth
******* puckered
sliding on black ice
toward the guardrail
moment after another.

And at nightfall,
formerly hiding in bottles,
shot glasses
and blackouts.

These days,
hiding in words,
like standing naked
on a not too busy
street corner.

A few people glance
as they walk by,
and I wave.

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 grabbed and yanked at you
like pulling a ****
splitting my concrete path
with thick roots.

I plucked you out,
like they told me to,
but the root
broke in my hand
below the surface.

The crack you grew from
an open mouth,
laughing,
as I dig
until my fingers
bleed.

The piece that’s left of you
already sprouting:
tiny fingers grasping
at what’s left
of me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

"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.

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

I like to stroll in empty lots, full of weeds
thorns and broken glass.
More peaceful this way
than in some imagined future
when the land is sold off
to the highest bidder and filled
with fast food joints and markets selling
cheap goods made by foreign slaves
and cars frantically searching for the closest
parking space, and people scrambling
for the best deals for as much as they can get
not seeming very happy to get it.
Parents, dragging their kids along
like little sponges soaking up the
living waters of the great marketplace.

I consider all this, and rejoin the passing moment.
A man is walking his dog some distance away.
The dog sniffs, squats, and after,
they both walk away, leaving the **** behind.
I walk on through the tall weeds, swooshing,
catching seeds in the hairs on my legs, a sower.
And every shard of broken beer bottle reflects
Sun and sky, like jewels
in Indra’s net.

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?”

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.

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 ***.

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.

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!

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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...

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...

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.”

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.

“I’m a loner.”
You say, but the TV’s on,
people there, living their lives.
Your favorite family, perhaps.
You wish you were part of it,
laughing, crying with them.

“I’m a loner.”
With the radio on,
someone sings to you,
or talks about politics, religion
and you agree, or yell at them.

“I’m a loner.”
On the computer,
social media, or chatting
with an old friend from high school
or a woman you just met.

Go to some deserted place,
a mountaintop,
some lonely, rocky shore.
Stay there for an hour,
a day, or a year.
What, or who
did you think about?
Then return, and say again
who and what you are.
Or better yet,
say nothing.

We watched that couple
in the restaurant,
whispering venom
across the table,
shaking their heads,
then chewing their meal
in sullen silence,
looking away.

I reached across our table
and squeezed your hand,
as we agreed, “Not us.”

And we were right.
We didn't make it
halfway to that...

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.