East sat amongst the
ground level clouds
drenched in the
weeping tears
of Down Town Mothers.

A crystal door chime
sings that song
the wind sang
to me a lifetime ago.

Out of the blood
of the living
comes the strength
to stack these caskets
4 and 5 deep.

That bearded
guitar playing
Demi God
spoke the words
I longed to write.

She was of a
Northern tribe
but spoke the language
of the Devils
and drank only
Volcano fire.

Her tattoos,
calm voice,
dyed hair and
flawless brows
are what pulled
me in.

I fought off Love
and gave in to the
muse while watching
yet another
Southern Migration
pass overhead.

Apartment door locks
all threw themselves secure
as the shadows grew taller
and West wasted itself
back into the sea.

The rains
crept
up on
Los Angeles.

Right along
side the
silent
morning
fog.

And the air
was clear
and devoid of
that ugly scar
of pollution.

Within the days
the ugliness,
my ugly cough
and the hurtful air
returned.

.

I awoke to a day that had been overtaken

The curtains were closed so I opened them .

I stood there in a pair of jersey shorts and a little bit of a headache.

The phone rang somewhere in the other room

I couldn’t pull myself away

I waited for the light to come in.

I stood there like a fool.

Thick black clouds had all settled into a part of the sky

No birds flew in this kind of weather.

No light to remind me its day.

I awoke to a day that had been overtaken .

Hopefully tomorrow it wont be the same

Beneath the shade of
an untrimmed
Juniper tree children
swing from
Hemp  ropes while
singing innocent
rhymes about killing.

The girls use nets
made from a
Reed switch
and catch gentle
Swallowtails
with no intentions
of ever letting them go.

The drunk guy and his drunk girl both sat
on the concrete near the dumpster along
with their oil stained dog.
The guy had stacked up some cardboard
for his girl to rest her backside on.
The dog drank cool water from an old tin.

The guy always greeted me with a tobacco
stained smile and a ***** open palm wave.
His girl was always drunk even when he obviously wasn’t.
Maybe that was his way of keeping her around.
Sacrifice a bottle for the company of her.

The dog  appeared fainthearted and
a bit skittish but his tail always wagged
at the sight of a stranger.
A hopeful wag, a heartening gesture.
One that said he still had hope that one
of these strangers would one day take
him home and away from the life
his fate had cast upon him.

I always took the time to greet the
drunks and the dog.
The guy’s face had that worn leather
look with his bold Native features
and his deep mocha colored skin.
His spiel was always the same he'd
praise my coat and my truck,
the dog would always wag his agreement.

I made sure to always leave them with
a fresh bottle of some cheap wine or
even cheaper *****.
A pack of GPC’s
and a stick of jerky for the dog.

The guy always took the gifts without standing.

He smiled and his drunk woman smiled
and the ***** dog wagged his ***** tail.
He would applaud me as I walked away.
Which for some reason caused me to
feel a bit less instead of feeling better.

Their joy was real.
***** back alley drunken joy.
While mine was only a front.

This all took place before all of this.
At a time when I thought
I was in love.

I lost sight of what it was
that brought me to this.

Skipped the holy water
and went straight for the wine.
A God who forgives
is God who won’t mind.

I got too many questions
with no one to ask.
I mumble to myself to
feel less alone.

I turn to the flower of forgetfulness
whose blood will ease my pain.

Two words appeared
on the tiny screen.
Two words that tore a hole right through
what I thought I had repaired.
“ It’s me…”

The Condor is  scavenging its way
back into existence
across barren California deserts.

I find I’m more concerned  
with things that are too far away
and too far gone for me or
anyone else to care for.

I had her for a little while.
But that little while
meant everything to me.

I got a number and
a place to lay my head.
A big enough stash to
keep this Monkey at ease.

I got all of what I need to
make it  through the night.

Yet  I still long for the
little  things
that never
did care just
a little bit for me.

They call them
brave and they
call them heroes.

As they drop
their bombs
while safely
away from the
battles below.