i would call it
magical
but nothing
tricked my
eye
it was all expected but
came unexpectedly
drinking
black
coffee
under conversations
about craters
vast lands and
museums
explaining the
Internet wifi and
logins
to an aerospace
engineer
(we were stuck
in a snowglobe)
we’ve got to think
a million years
in advance.
~ok.
and we never
know when
Yellow Stone
will blow.
~ok.

he’s explaining
the needs
the elements
the equations
all tied
through
Einstein’s theory
of relativity
and i ask
algebra plus
chemistry equals
physics?
yes.
ok. now. you see
-he states
the fission
leaves a proton
out which
creates x y z
energy
to get to
the maximum
capacity (80-85%)
of light
speed.
(we’ll never
achieve 100%
because e=mc
squared tells
us we can’t)
~ok.

now the reason
why kids these
days must listen.
according to these
elementary calculations
we need frozen fertilized eggs.
~ok.

now listen.
the closest star
system that we
can escape to (Centauri)
is 4.37 light years
from here. and now,
at 25 years to
complete a
light year,
we’re looking at
109.25 years
to get there
(ponder). that’s more than a century.
~you see.
we have to
act now.
and
this
is why
i’m telling
you.

then i read,
the sands of
present time
are running
from under our
feet. Brion Gysin
told me, it’s
the
Great
Conundrum
(colon):
“What are we
here for (question
mark)? is all
that ever held
us here in the
first place
(statement).
F • E • A • R
the answer
to the riddle
of the Ages
has actually been
out on the street
since the first
step in space.

mike and i
staring at Pete
thinking of Vic
listening to Brion
simultaneously
(em dash)——
who runs may read
but few people
run fast enough.
again,
“What are we
here for?”
does the great
metaphysical
nut
revolve around
that?
then he explains…
“i’ll crack it for you, right
now.”
ok.
what are we
here for?
we are here
to go
(pause). and so I went.
—————–
running
as fast as
i could to
books, web pages,
the library,
my kids, Vince,
my clients, my
wife
¡we must do
something! that
no one
will ever
see
nor
know
about!

and not one
listened.

growing up every
thing was late
parents waited
until thirty-two
to adopt the infant
with the big blue eyes
starring at them
from then on
it seems we were
always
late

leaving our excuses
in the offering plate
or even earlier in
the holy water
it didn’t bother them
they were used to
it as they left
excuses in their
footprints
on the way to
school in the
parking lot
at soccer
practice it

was just normal
thought nothing
of it as they bought
our christmas tree
on christmas eve’s
eve getting rid of it
in exchange for when
four-leaf clovers
came good day easter
savior april fools

we were late again.
but then
again
it’s only time.

nowadays adulthood
everything seems
earlier happening
before it should
got pregnant before
marriage had to install
a dvd in the van due
to us arriving earlier
than planned always
there to help set up
help out clothes
still damp from the
dryer premature
warnings (bzzz)

putting our excuses
in times doubts realities
were the future holding
a late past whipped in
the principles office
tardy slip-fearing
b.y.o.b. but, the
party was there
and the bathrooms
weren’t even cleaned
we get

our christmas tree
while we still have
left-over turkey for
Christ’s birthday new
years resolutions already
made before we
unwrap gifts the
only one out of our
friends with kids
and responsibilities
no fooling we
always get
the worm

we’re always early.
but then
again
it’s only time.

there’s a pack of cigarettes in my trunk if you need
one.
marlboro ultra light menthols no joke they never see
fun.
well-versed in your stress too much to handle it all at
your
very very greatest.

you’re only eight.

and you needn’t be crying in bed next to me this
late.
daddy gets anxious too
and i get by (daily)
by
knowing

that there’s a pack of **** in the
trunk.

but knowing my necessities. i won’t have
one.

because they’re
stale.

just like my stress
and
anxiety

they are
almost always
in poor
taste.

i met jesus today.
he didn’t care what
it said on his sweatshirt
the brand. the design.
it was in english.

we looked each other
in the eyes after a sweaty
game of soccer on the
dirt field with a size 4 ball.

and called each other
mentirosa for adding points
to our scores that weren’t
really made. beaded black eyes.

didn’t need anything i was
used to. didn’t want anything that
wasn’t there. ensenada breeze.
mi maestro en español.

i, his teacher of english.
jesus and i bonded for
at least 4 hours. as
the ten-year-old
gave a ‘don’t go’
look but with a
confident
expectation
that
i

would beg to
come back.

yes,
you’re the
man, not
you
da man,
bro
like a salute
high-five
good-deed
just accomplished
something worth
congratulations.
you’re the
man,
as in
make every
one feel safe
head of the house
take out the
trash, go
to the water
well, put the
clothes in
the dryer
in the middle of
the night, be
sure the
garage is closed,
stove off, front
door locked
duties of
being
the man
yes,
i am the
man.

the classic. defines his essence.
has class but wears slip-on airwalks with a corduroy finish.
he is the un-official fragrance of California.

the blend. defines his unique musk.
creates his own signature scent. the aroma of lust.
he’s there. but not in the center.

the freshest. defines his presence.
casually sensual, yet professionally down-to-business.
his look. that stare. hearts he hypnotizes.

the drift. defines his confidence.
distinctively driven. to be assertive, yet ever so cleverly subtle.
she loves it. he knows the ingredients.

the scent. citrus and verbena.
‘herbal’ with a dry-down of jasmine and thyme.
bound to a hint of petuna’s hide.

the content. 12% oil blend for a compelling long last.
that won’t overpower the girl who’s time is spent basking
in another place. the great lakes.

the dirt. front row parking.
richness of the earth. fresh sea. warm sun.
acqua di gio. gendarme.

just call me
easy b
easy does it.
i’m easy like
dot dot dot
(ditching church on a)
sunday morning
head to the ocean
no sun, west coast
BK Joe, morning roast
exposed toes massaged
by millions of miniature rocks.
no hard place
just soft, safe,
in touch with creation
as i listen to nothing
but creation
itself.
don’t make this
difficult.

It’s a fight to
wake up
so early
sunday morning.

a hike was set
up clearly
no problem.
motivation
was built in
or so it was
perceived
before gathering
all four plus one
getting lunch in
the a.m. to eat
in the p.m. five
aluminum bottles
filled with earth’s
most purest
element (water)
on my back
in a pack pulling
perspiration from
my pores. soaked.
sore. rock hopping
dirt treading
it was fun
it was work
the stream we
followed up. up
to what could easily
be called a piece of
Heaven. the peace of
a waterfall. source
of the stream.

then
when
we returned
we heard the
sunday morning
man on the podcast
behind a microphone
inside four walls
say,
“i’ll take the
elevator.”

when i had
long hair
surfer they assumed.

brah.

with dread locks
for five years
i was rasta-farian.

mon.

volkswagen bus
stickers = one love
they never really knew

who i was.

a businessman
making millions
on their ignorance.

cha-ching.

in this capitalist-
driven dwelling
i am a human

being.

i’m a bruised banana.
a used napkin. as
raw and real as it gets.

squished.

and ripped.

but that still
shouldn’t
matter

because

it’s never
better to cast
upon us any kind of

judgements.

how differently would you treat me
if you discovered
i was the product of ****?

should i believe
that i really made
the abortion escape?

i don't know the seed that planted me.
neither the soil.

but i was born.
i am living. i am
definitely real.

was it a date? a one-night stand?
the curiosity starts to thicken.
a fling? an experiment? with a boy and a girl –
at fifteen years-old? a king – and his mistress?
was it Winnie Hollman – and Jack Nicholson?
maybe satan on hallow's eve. it was october
when i was conceived.

eliminating a baby is crippling
to the mother. it's hardening
to the heart. it's parting
from the start. never
saying hello.
never seeing
your star glow. oh man...

i don't know.

i must have whispered inside the tunnels within.
it's not the end.
—end.
i'm not finished.
—finished.
the echo made it's way.
—it's mark. in the dark.
the light.

a spark.

there's never a right time
to say good bye. but when
we know. we gotta go.
and stray our own way.

just to make sense of this.
whether we know what it is.
people do it all the time. people
doing what's right. why do we fight
the truth. a choice saved my life.

i am living proof.

i just want to stare at you.
and compare you to
what i see in the mirror.

the fear would subside.
many questions arise.
only one answer resides.

real is what you made me.
my life is what you gave me.

so to you
i give all my gratitude.
thank you.

bottle the ocean.
it looks clear.

imprision the sky.
air disappears.

blue is a made-up pigment. a
figment of our imagination. a
fabricated. hallucination.

not fire. nor air. not dirt.
i searched. the plants. and water.
not Homeric poetry. not anywhere.

just the hollow bodies.
of mass sandwiching us.
a mellow glare. trans-
lucent. see-through. clear.

the ocean’s depths. ***** charcoal.
yucatan peninsula water falls. o’er
my own genuine blue eyes as
the myan ruins reveal my lie.

forgetting this blue collar
mess with ripped terminology.
denim turned to jeans
post war. 1950s.

blue is not real.
(eye) see right through (them)
in water’s reflection.
pinch me.

so i may know
that i’m
not

empty.

i will become extinct now
because the cows that i love
to eat and drink will have
no more grass to mow
leaving machine processed
foods for nourishment. eliminating
the use of my four-thousand dollar
orthodontic pretty white pearls and
find worth in the five-thousand
dollar allo-derm gum implants.

i will become extinct now as

my forty-year-old digestive
system in which has been pumping
iron exercises three times a day
testing it’s strength with an
8 ounce filet mignon will have
no use any longer so long
to my habitual adult grape
juice for the vines will have
no place to grow. soon they’ll be
powderized. they’ll capsulize my merlot.

i will become extinct now as

the sun sets but only
because it’s manufactured
like pirates of the caribbean
ride you don’t know you’re
inside. fake flames. fake heat.
fake sunsets which provoke my
deepest feelings. artificial now
emotions controlled to it’s
purest form snowboarding
on snoopy sno-cone creations.

replacing our creator with the
lastest inventions. i will
become extinct now.

for i cannot live this way
because my heart is real.

i meant (italicized)
to commit
to many things.

i meant (underlined)
to submit to
my authority.

obligation.
restriction.
(pause) deterioration.

i go over the
f o r m u l a
over and
(caps) over

again. one
that no (bold) one
looks at.

but me (underlined).
accepting what i see.
some form of (italicized)

rotary dial coin slot skipping cd broken sink peanut
butter and jelly crust click push breathe particles
layered dust on the window sill.

commited to a mental
institution (meant to).
middle eastern tradition.

no variety (elipse) —sonic boom—
no room for parady (italics) commit
suicide.

a process according
to the scribbles
of man.

and a pattern that
absolutely
nothing
amounts
to (period).

if i were a security guard
i'd be a better
writer

writing like a real
writer with time
to feel

the people watching
i'm engaged in.
passionate

wouldn't even begin
to explain the
half of it.

it's life and it's
distractions
cracking

the complications of
my own plan.
the

man i'm destined to
be (period).
deleted.

on the run. keep me
seated (ellipsis)...
and i'll
write.

right
off the page.
onto
my pant leg.

dedications. heart
to hand (cramp).
wondering

what will i do when
i grow up. i know
what.

become a security
guard at santa
monica

pier
and

dis-
appear

dis-
regard-
ing

who i
am.

they'll think i'm
there to stop all
wrong.

but all i want
is to stop and
write.

never realized how much
music i made until
she was gone.

the snare on the
table.

the cling on the
railing.

against my phone
nervous twitch.
clicking the clip

on

black pen.
the drop in
left pocket.

snare. snap.
boom. bip.
shuffle. tap.
slip of lips.

synchronizing a
new chorus.

now

the hits are hollow.
the verse empty.
sans ring.

thump.

i actually saw sad before. in words.
i saw her laying on the floor.
next to me. as i read her quietly.

leaning against the couch. lifting a
glass of wine to her mouth. as she
shouted how she hated me.

touching. then inhaling.
begging. then crying.
a crook. who repents.

in the robbed. smoke-filled.
brooklyn apartment.

crinkled. crumbled.
waste basket. shot.
not empty. but filled.

with sad.

tears.

helping me realize the
should-haves and what-ifs.

a stream running.
over smoothed rocks. forming
bumps from under. drowning pollywogs.

numb. idle. this prosaic.
emotions stacked. like the dishes
in the drying rack.

drip.

drip.

metronome pattern
every morning eight
oh-nine a.m.

just in time for
creamed coffee
and headlines

everything becomes
silent surrounding
the sonic field

    that leads
    that follows
    that's within

steps stepping
sequence ten
second rhythm

from back alley
toward front
boardwalk

by the kitchen
window drapes
drawn

    she glances
    she smiles
    she's gone.

the confidence
spawned from
high heels.

deep sleep
hot spots
grinding teeth
sweat
percolating
from
receding
hairline

trying to
calculate

meditating on

wondering if

all words from
all dictionaries
from all over

the world

were being used
in this very moment
simultaneously.

then i rolled over
to the cold side of
the pillow and
quietly said

"possibly."

like a man
i packed tobacco
into my pipe but
i don’t own a yellow hat

in Shadowlands
C.S. Lewis told me
marriage is for life and
i never forgot that

i struck fire
from a Sahara Club
matchbook
that Carissa gave me
back in ’98

she took her clothes off
dancing
for a living but i didn’t
meet her that way

we used to drink
newcastles, smoke
menthols and walk
Newport’s back bay

we laughed
a lot
and did drugs
at raves

i used to tell her
“when i make it
i will take care
of you everyday.”

i never made it
and tonight
i cleared
my pipe with

one hit

one match

one woman