I  shrouded
my shame
behind blacked
out
sunglasses
and spiked my
lies with
deep
red wine .

The pigeons picked at the
crumbs in between the diamonds.
But they were more than likely
just pieces of broken glass.

The occupants of
the Mad house sit
out front on the concrete steps.
The look on their faces
say they are far
away from all of this used to be.

He could have been a
family man, a respected man.
Instead he slept like a
naive little baby, curled up on
the concrete with only
a wine stained coat for comfort.

This here is an asphalt
run still alive with history.

Good time girls and juiced up
sailors once painted this
street red with painted kisses
and fist fight blood.

The guys danced with the
women whose lips were
as red as the wine they drank.

This all should have gone
on forever.

All that is left now are
the pigeons and
the broken glass.

The winos and the Mad ones,
who shuffle like lost penguins
along Beacon street.
Still waiting for
the party to begin.

To be Loved
is mostly
temporary and at
times a lie.

But to be missed
to be remembered
lasts as long as
a memory
and is about as
real as it's ever
going to get..

It Shows you
just how sadly
powerless you truly
are  in the form
of grinding
dull aches to the
lower back and
the calves .

It cuts in line
in front of the
brushing of the
teeth,
the cleaning of the
body,the caring for
another and
the life that must
stand aside and
wait to be lived.

It's the warmth
that becomes your
lover,
the obsession with
feeling nothing but
the Poppies love.

One can't explain
the why's  and the
how's of the
Magical Poppy.
One tries to
reason with the
Dragon
and discovers that
it is the monkeys
grip that brings
the pain.

This life is a ride on
the back of a wild
untamed horse,
whose need to run
free across open
pastures
turns one into a
version of himself
he never knew
existed.

Blame it
on the
ley lines.
Or blame
it on this
city itself.

These bodies
can tan
10 months
out of
the year
without  the
mind ever
wondering
where the
winter went.

Give them
a little
rain and
watch them
seek refuge
in the shopping
malls where
they buy
designer
rain boots
and jackets.

Things they
know they'll
only use on
the oddest
of these grey
Los Angeles
winter days.

They lay
on their
uncomfortable
bunks.

Roaches and mice
have the run
of the floor.

Stale vented
air fills the small
concrete inclosure.

The smells
and the time
they've learned
to ignore.

Some think
about what
lead them
to this and
how they can
change.

Some curse
themselves
for getting
caught and
can't wait to
try and
pull it off
again.

I'm taking my
time with this one.
I'm going far below
it all,bare with me.

The fear and
the anger level
off the risk,
the pistol and
the black cat
provide  me
with composure.

I can still see
it all,
the blood on the
floor,blood
on the memories.
Still feel the tears
as they tumble
in the darkness
of the void.

Have you ever
confronted what it
is that hurts you
in the dark.
Laughed at the
magnitude of your
needs as you fulfilled
the hard times
with all the
wrong things.

I'm venturing
deeper,
there's no turning back
now.

The last words
she said to me
still echo behind the
high.
Failures pass me by
as I remain loyal
to the hunger.

They celebrate in order
to escape.
I burrow deeper into
the tar, chase it all
down with the
cheapest bottle
of the highest proof.

The ringing
of the rush
and the calming of
the fix
taunts my soul.

I continue to
jot it all down,
I allow it to
act as a mediator
between my mind
and this hostile
world.

It pacifies these
terrors,
these desires
and allows me to feel.

I'm pulling back now
the purpose has
been served.
And still I
refuse their
pill formed
cures.

The memories
are still alive
and for this
brief moment
the pain has
ceased.