there's no rip cord --
your stuck in this stinking shell,
success measured by inches,
lipstick badged for lions,
punchlines thrown like lettuce
at the bravo males,

there's no rip cord --
the evaluation preemptive,
a crooked eyebrow and a sigh
with the lights on,
a slow grind of inadequacy
leading to a clumsy spew,

there's no rip cord --
so most bludgeon bashful cheeks
with wedding bands --
a life locked in rolling pupil sheets,
a kid, a fence, a lawyer, and
an itchy trigger finger
stirred and served with
a green olive.

The veiny, tan arm of the male nurse, rests too long on Sam's shoulder.
I stand outside of the door's frame until the ******* gives me an
"uh--", loosens his cords with a saliva hack, nods
and brushes past me on his way out.

Sam looks like she found herself on the receiving end
of a riot at the gates of hell.

I take one last suckoff from my fast food straw, making that
obnoxious vacuum noise.
Sam's navy blue lids flutter, open, she connects.
"Oh -- hey, man. How's it goin'?" she asks taken aback.

"Not too bad, lady."

"Why are you dressed so nice?"

"Um, I--uh just got back," exhale, "from your mom's thing."

"Gawd," her lids close tight, nose scrunches.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," the cliché sentiment bounces
off the ancient yellow walls with a awkward thud -- falls to the floor.

Soap opera dialogue from a microscopic, mounted television makes its presence known during a dense break in our conversation.

I sit down in the chair next to her hospital bed.

"What are you staring at?" she spits.

"Just you, you look so small."

"Hospital food tastes how funeral homes smell."

"How long have you been in here?"

"Closing in on two weeks. That's why it took
so long for them to bury Mom.
We were hoping I could come."

"Ahh, gotcha. Why are they keeping you?"

"A few of those internal ***** injuries that
get doctors in a tizzy. Was Gloria there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, her and her family."

"Stuff still weird with you guys?"

"There isn't 'stuff'."

She fidgets, "You know what I miss most about my mom?"

"What's that?"

"Anytime I was feeling like **** she would cradle me,
and kiss my forehead. Made ya feel safe you know?"

I get up, sit on the edge of her bed, wrap one arm cautiously around her.
"Is this okay?"

"Perfect."

I brush her extremely light, blonde hair into curtains around her forehead.
She closes her eyes as I kiss. Her hand grips my wrist tightly.

"All better?"

She grins slowly, "Maybe one more."

I bend down, she elevates before I can reach her brow,
snags the **** hanging about my neck, and crashes her lips
hard into mine.

She moves her lips desperately, ferociously --
clasping them tightly to mine.
My head starts to get light, my hand runs down her side.

"Ahhhem."

We quickly tear our stitched lips free.

Gloria walks out the door.

with a shrill cry we entered here,
we pitter-pattered on broken concrete,
we channel surfed the static,
charged with disdain and an
affinity for quickly dismissing
hopes for change,

with a shrill cry we entered here,
diploma in hand,
vocabulary expansive--
we tabbed the browsers,
waited for the buffer,
thought silent prayers,

with a shrill cry we entered here,
a jungle of shouts, busted fenders,
AA meetings, and white male kings,
waiting to mean anything more than seem,
and while we wait they talk polite-
ask us to line up against a newly white-washed wall,
the sunlight gleams over barrel, over trigger,

with a shrill cry we exit here.

A bat of the eyes, a flick of the wrist,
a ruffle of sleeve, a daydream,
a heartattack kiss and
I'm gone, no time to grieve--
all the leaves of prose and bad poetry,
perhaps you'll remember me-
during those halcyon afternoons,
when the coffee brews,
distant church bells ring out
a panhandler's tune no one can sing to,
but we used to dance it through
in damp clothes and into dark rooms--
a life lost in desperate minutes,
forbidden fruits and daggers of knowledge
were all we could taste, feel in the midst
of the misery in simply existing,
and woman you're free to rise above me,
stare from the balcony,
while I reenact a lifetime of sin
on a half-lit stage, far from the lilac's bloom,
never will I dress as a groom,
nor will I sleep under the same moon,
that was miles ago, summers away from here,
a mythical love taken to sea,
oh, it's easy to miss what never could be.

gurgle, gurgle,
groundcurrent unsettled,
moon unseen like stars
fever dreamed,
dissonance for the melody maker,
dissonance for the retired risk-taker,
dissonance for the hips of homewreckers.

civil, civil,
no minutes can afford the divide,
aside, to the crystal buildings and
the sky's sputtering cries,
compliments to your forehead's ****,
compliments to your forefather's rash,
compliments to your aforementioned crash.

the current, the current
rides hot and merciless along thigh,
dribbles down chins and nightgowns,
dries--a permanent badge of scattered life,
electroshock seeps from self-made holes,
electroshock seeps from smoldering bowls,
electroshock seeps from typecast roles.

volcano, volcano,
grumble and moan.

volcano, volcano,
clear cord and stroke.

volcano, volcano,
grieve me in ash.

volcano, volcano,
I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad.

The cacophony of metal cutting metal screeches,
burying the sound of 2,000 automobile engines, one train,
and 45 yapping onlookers.

I am self-actualizing.

The ******* Oriental who cut me off
learns the meaning of justice in a hair-split second.

I howl as I force his car further to the side of the road.
He's yelping, feeling fright claw his once-proud brain.

I look up, trying to keep my car on the road.
We tear past shopfront after shopfront,
patrons wailing, pointing, finally finding
something mad enough to put down their forks.

I see skeletal trees,
overshadowed by a red wrecking ball,
an out-of-business record shop,
the metal still crying the most demonic
siren's song.

Further I push him,
he's on pavement,
my little Oriental enemy.
I look at him again.
His knuckles are milk white,
his brow covered with perspiration,
his mouth bleeding from his own bite.

Then he hits.

A stoplight post of solid steel,
with three or so feet of concrete surrounding.
I learn he isn't wearing a seat belt.
Glass grinds his delicate skin, he catapults through the air,
then flattens against a newspaper dispenser.

Then I hit.

A **** Suburban in front of me,
who had stopped to watch the carnage,
now found itself partaking.

I have my seatbelt on,
the bags deploy,
thumping my head and
chest like a crippled bolt of lightning.

The Suburban spins into oncoming traffic,
getting further rearranged by
a pile-up of moaning metal.

My truck comes to a stop.
Smoke cascades languidly,
as humans shout in unison,
"I hope you have good insurance!"

I walk back fifteen yards to the
newspaper dispenser.

The Oriental man twitches,
blood pooling about his head
and left arm.

I stoop down closer to him,
look at his silent Rorschach ****** features,
gaze over my shoulder.
The Suburban lies in smoldering ribbons,
driver probably trying to get into heaven.

Shouts continue, building upon one another,
a crowd gathers around me,
whispers all similar to "what the hell happened?"
flame up and burn through the collective.

"Did you know him?" a small black boy,
with teeth of snow asks.

"Not real well, but don't worry kid, he wasn't a good man."

I rummage through the crowd until I break through,
I hear sirens of some sort in the distance,
unclear of cop or ambulance,
I survey the damage to my truck-
a light busted out,
bent bumper,
and what looks like a few holes drilled into the grill.
I open the door,
clumsily ruffle the airbag,
put my key in the ignition,
and to my delight
when I turn the beast,
it purrs submissively.

I grin, let my fingertips
briefly dance on the steering wheel,
and put the truck in reverse.