a few tender souls
once intertwined with me
have been shred away
by my hand
my spine is crooked over
from holding the weight
of this heavy heart
my neck sore from
supporting this brain filled
to the brim with regret
that I became the things
I looked on with a tinge of disgust
when I was eighteen
my skin feels unclean
despite countless showers
I scour and scrub but
the grimeyness persists
how did this...
how did this...

happen?

Now that I
really sit
and think
about it,
that was the
most heart
felt thing
anyone has
done for me
in a long long long
                                   time

I would watch that movie
just one more time
if I watched it with her.

I think we forget
that we are on one simple planet
racing through  space
just a rock
just a glorified rock

The thought of light beams
painting your thighs and collar
just a bit tanner
as you offer in a smaller than normal voice,
"I could sunbathe in your backyard"
is more than enough.

In class today Luis read his story
it blew us all away
a tale about an old man
living in a LA barrio
who used to believe in change
used to march for a cause
It got everyone right in the heart
and in the hearts of all their ancestors
The story was so full of culture
that even us whities felt it
That's when it hit
when I realized why my writing
never grabs people on such a deep level
I have no culture, I'm a jumble of whiteness
too far removed from Europe to have
any trace of my forefathers
I have no customary meals
I have no language diversity
no traditions at all really
Except smoking **** in the suburbs
and snorting coke in bathrooms
it's meaningless
and the culture I think I have is stolen
appropriated
My roots have been torn out
of whatever snow covered ground
they once belonged to
I feel empty, I feel like part of nothing
and Luis' ******* writing
made me feel like part of something
that I'm really not even close to
I loved it
I hated it
I wanted to rip it to bits
I wanted to read it ten times in a row
He made me want to give up
He made me hang my head in shame
I got home and put flame
to my last short story
I'm a cultureless swine
I'm boring
I'm boring
I'm
boring

Petals flurried in the wind,
gusts rushing white clouds.
A final hoo-rah,
a perfect storm
before bare branches.

We sit and watch,
petals in our hair,
mischievous tendrils of air whipping.
We sit and watch
with wonder, this blessing,

yet we forget our own.

When what makes them
t i c k. is known,
they are thrown
away like beer cans
in sand.
My wife must be
a lady
I will never understand.

My hands have scars now
darkened splotches etched
in skin, flush against my eyes.
I got them but I don't know how,
because pain no longer sends
signals up my spinal chord.
My shoulder is tight from a
near death moped crash
not long past, but faded
like the lines on my thighs
or the blue of my eyes.
The only things left that are bright
and fresh are the
scars on my hands.

Kyle talked of suicide
how he wanted a way out
a release
but he never tried
I looked him in the eyes
and spoke
"In highschool
I poured a handful of Vicadin
down my throat
as soon as my palm was empty
I choked
as much as I wanted escape
I did not want to die
so I forced myself to puke
before it was too late."
I hope he understood

Posted in a dispensery
Coffee, magazine
"Politics of ****"
Dyed hair, smiles
hippie home
SC

My parents might say
I've grown up since I left the Bay
that Long Beach has seen me mature
sure I'm older, more composed
but if you ask me,
I just feel detached
and lonely.

"I haven't bled."
She paused.

Now, two tests rest,
neatly packaged in friendly pink,
waiting to give their best guess -
baby or no baby?

Maybe it won't go too far,
turn into a "whew"
or a story to shake our heads to.

But if those little plastic
holders of destiny,
come up with two black lines, not one,
my blood will rush,
pulse against my skin's surface.
A little part of us destined for end,
for end,
for end.

Words poured out like a salad
She wept and cried
yelling at the jumble
"You won't get me!
Just a big pile of salad words!"
Her dad stood in her doorway
while someone whispered
"It's not real, you aren't even her."
But she was on the phone with me
I heard every word
"I'm scared..."
fades out like the giggle she
keeps hearing and the
little girl that she has seen
"I was possessed once"
she told me, "maybe twice."
then we walked on the beach
everything seemed calm
two weeks later hearing
arms scratching the walls and
her dad standing in the doorway
is it real?
real?
rea
re
r

Things aren't so bad
when you're surrounded by dogs,
when the fog clears, beaten back
by sun-infused forearms,
shut off internal alarms.
Fresh breath from the wind swept set,
the serene scene aloes my singed ends.
In my grayed head
I feel a little flung off the handle,
like I went from cliff tops
to canyons, laying in shambles,
to resting at sea level.

The page this was written on
has rain drop stains.
Something about all that falling water
gets a brain going.
A jogger bobs along,
only rain walkers remain,
the rest are gone
back to their homes.
Something about all that falling water
really gets to them.
The wetness does end folks,
it's a cycle.
Missing out on a whole.

She said I
                 "Just look happier."
She was right.

Bottoned to the jaw
stone cold face to thaw
roughed and raw under
the black cloud dress shirt,
loud like thunder
as a I skirt the jungle
that is the tangle of bangles
and bands, hanging from wrists
followed by hands, twisting
to grab clear courage
with a flourish
Gulp, gulp, gulp
another plunge, more lurching
spiked up exterior like a sea urchin
lurking in the deep, dark ocean
Slowly getting dull
I'm emptier the more I am full
fire slowly flitting out,
I'm a dying coal
a half burned ember
put out by the snow of December
just pretending to be fire
I'm happy (I'm a liar)
but I never tire
of drowning
lurching, lurching
prickly again, I'm a sea urchin

Let the rending of your being
fuel the fires born to melt yourself
in a mold
be the creator and the created
you are your own god,
take pride in yourself
as a soul

I'm starting to hear that tick,
the terrible tick of Time.
Yes, capital T,
a cliche thing that never nagged
at my dreams.

But now,
decline is not so
sublime.

Optimization that negates authenticity,
moronic, trust me.
Feed the machine what it wants.
Find out its favorite flavors,
bitter? sweet?
Make sure to provide a constant stream
of goodies,
savory? saucy?
make the links buttery, c-lickable.

Thirty three stones
stacked and painted
neon green, purple, grey.
The sun's blaze shimmering heat waves
back toward the flat landscape.
The magic pillars attract disciples
to their path,
bring color on a desolate drive.

Old man eyes hide
behind rims covered
in Native design
Lens' of a dark
bark brown keep the
prying looks out
Honest irises are a virtue,
I was told.
Mine scream
"This head is muddled and old!"
So cover them up
Don't let the hungry
stares get past the
glass, sipping from that
red plastic cup
Honest eyes are a virtue
I think that's only true
for you

Tonight you are off, far away,
you've left this place,
left a space in hearts that hurts,
though you intend it not.
Your grand daughter is in knots.
Please appear in her dreams,
tell her all the things you love about her,
let her wake, a deep breath
to calm quaking hands,
and feel you smiling,
sipping tea,
happy to have been her grandpa.
She loves you endlessly...

You always shook my hand,
always wanted your family to flourish,
always seemed content
knowing your kids and grand-kids
were living happy lives.
I didn't know you well,
but I know you cast a calming spell,
and without you here
the world is missing
something important

The dryer spins it's cycle out
heated and roaring
Stout through out the restless night
spent churning the day over
in my mind.
Blunt, M, saved lives, little escape
got woven into stories about
SoCal amigos, tattoos and lingo
on top of that M, on top of that hill
it was her that tripped, but me that f
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