A saintly cabdriver
High in the mountains of Arizona
Once told me to try to never be cynical.
Live in the now, you won’t regret it.
His own son
Had given his life to negativity.
I never saw the driver’s face
But I know he had a moustache
And I imagine his face was lined
With many years of the winters of Flagstaff
And the harsh wisdom of all creation.
I tipped him two dollars after
The ride was over.
I probably should have also told him
Thanks for saving my life
Or
Thanks to you
For imparting these golden thoughts
Or
I hope things work out between you and your boy.
But I didn’t.
Instead I got in my car
And pointed the headlights
For New Mexico.
It was a long drive.
That was many months ago
And it has been a crazy ride ever since.
I remember every single woman
That I have “loved.”
I remember all of the friends
Whose shoulders were but precipices for understanding.
I even remember what I had for breakfast this morning
Or what new horror story the news had for me a month ago.
But I will forget those things soon enough.
The cabdriver
Who’s name I never even asked for
High in the San Francisco Mountains
Of Arizona
Spinning his wheels all around a city
Filled with
People that really just want him to drive them somewhere.
He drove me somewhere.
I just don’t know where.
The perfect thing is that
Once he was gone
He was gone.

The men here walk
With their lives on their backs.
Some lope up and down the road for hours, days even.
Cardboard signs strewn about reading, “PORTLAND,” “SOUTH,”
“ANYTHING HELPS, GOD BLESS.”
Some sleep in the parks whacked
On a drug-induced trip
Or
Whacked from the long trip of life.
You can tell they are tired,
Can’t you?
Girls will sometimes cross the street
In tears.
They really don’t care if you see them that way.
But they don’t seem to care about much.
Crying babies pushed in strollers
Down the avenue for miles
While their mothers talk on cellphones
About something that they probably shouldn’t.
The grass in the park is green and wet from the rain,
Still a homeless man lies there.
Asleep for just a little bit longer.
And as a train rumbles into town, you realize
That soon there will be more
Of them.
This town was meant for the strange.
What’s more, it all makes you finally realize that
All along, you have been the strangest of all.
The whistle in the distance
Says,
“Welcome home.”

There’s a statue of
Rembrandt in Amsterdam and
Beneath his feet I once got ******
With a funny German man who would die
Soon after in a dreadful accident
Involving a beautiful waterfall.
There’s a five-foot ****
Just West of Sacramento
That got me so ripped,
As well as one of my best friend’s
Brothers who soon after rolled
His car and went away from the Earth.
There are some beautiful mountains
In California and
In their shadow I got red-eyed
With a May-Queen so beautiful
That she just would not
Be long for this world.
There’s a ridge outside of Vegas
That looks like a naked woman on her back and
It was pointed out to me
By the man I call, “Pa.”
I wasn’t ****** that time.