I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I rolled up the window.

I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I locked my doors.

I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I drove right by,
I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
thought “I have nothing to give.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
but like most people,
I diverted my eyes.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
but like most people, I can’t tell you
what His cardboard sign said.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
He held a piece of cardboard,
it said “need…” but I don’t know what.

I wonder, did He need,

Money
Work
Food
Love?
I saw a homeless man,
and I wonder
how long had it been since He showered?

I saw a homeless man,
and I can’t help but question
how long He’s been that way.
I saw a homeless man,
and I didn’t make a difference,
even though a bill burned my pocket.

I saw a homeless man,
and I realized,
I’m still a poor college student.

I saw a homeless man,
and He didn’t receive my sympathy,
I gave Him fear, distrust, and invisibility.
I saw a homeless man,
on the way home,
in my old truck.

I saw a homeless man
He found a backpack
and was given $100,000.

I saw a homeless man,
and thought maybe he’ll be lucky too,
but then I realized it takes someone like me
to make someone like Him
Lucky.
I know I will see the homeless man
again and again and again.
Maybe I’ll read His sign.

I know I will see the homeless man,
on my drive home in the evening,
I know I won’t change.
But, I wonder, who will?

I’m the girl who saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I did a few things,

Locked the door
Rolled up the window
Looked away
Kept driving.
I’m the girl who saw a homeless man,
with twenty dollars in her pocket,
and I didn’t help one bit.

It’s fresh I thought,
Too red to be old.
Someday it will fade,
soon maybe.
It will turn pink.
I try not to stare but,
it’s as if some invisible magnetic force
is pulling my eyes towards it.
Does he know I’m staring?
It makes me uncomfortable,
I slowly sit down.
look into my tea, at the wall behind him
look at my hands.
“how was your day?” he asks.
He has no idea I see it.
I start to shake.
I know what he did,
what he’s been doing.
How do I ask?
Do we get help now?
It’s not healthy I think,
to just ignore the problem.
“It was fine.” I say
The lipstick perched on his collar.
The same way his hands were perched on her *******,
Maybe only an hour ago.
All I see is red.
Someday it will fade,
a mere smudge.
Nobody else will see it,
But I know, like a scar,
the mark will always remain.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse?
Full dedication, my vindication.
It purposefully maintained his great farce,
Masterfully lying, the persuasion.

He was always gorged full of his own ****.
I was willful and weak and victimized.
Beautiful deceiving eyes, I admit,
I was full of love, by him, mesmerized.

I became fully his, ****** into life
with a perjurer, oh he was skilful!
My heart was full with love, my head, strife.
The endless lies would stop, I was hopeful.

  But hopefulness can become helplessness
  with hearts, things become frightfully hellish.

You never recognize everyone,
in an old photograph.

I can’t try to pretend,
that their faces are familiar.

three faces,
of seven.

One is pouting, almost frowning,
that’s me.

I have not altered,
I still hate birthdays.

I changed only in looks,
and vocabulary.

Stagnant.

Amanda, the second,
as close as a sister.

Three years older,
hands on hips.

She craved a career,
the Air Force.

Her goal was good grades,
and stability.

She had everything she needed,
to join the military.

He arrived,
not a boyfriend.  

Pregnant.

The final face,
one of Joy.

He lived eighty five years,
and I cried at the end.

His harmonica, buried with him,
his last sounds were words.

“Tell the girls I love them”
he said on the hospital phone.

Dead.

You never recognize everyone,
in an old photograph.

What you do recognize,
causes pain.

I don’t recommend looking,
unless you’re a *******.

When are you leaving?

The smoke from the cigarette
hugs me
I stare in wonder at something I’ve seen so many times
the white trails in the darkness
everything fades

Soon.

The smell will never
dissipate
I begin to wonder
Why is it called a drag
You can smoke a cigarette
in less than 4 minutes
It’s not a *drag
it’s quick

Last call.

My cup is almost empty
Jack on the rocks
the ice drowns
it melts into the canvas
amber substance

I’m almost done.

One more sip
One last taste
the mesmerizing magical magnetic
amber substance
it holds friends together
while the supply is plenty
but what happens when it runs out

Better to smoke the last of that than waste it.

I am pulled back to the
fate stick between my shaky fingers
smoke teasing in and out
deep breath
quick inhale
extinguished

One large swoop
grabbing liver waylayer
laywayer
swig
sip
empty

The bar closed
the door closed


*goodbye.

poetry, is almost dead
it’s gasping for breath
reaching out ,tearing at the bottom of our pants
clinging to anyone it can
A  solider of culture
being dragged from the battlefield,
after an open fire attack
by generations and generations

Poetry,
words strung together with beautiful precision
feelings reveled
people laying naked
exposed
Bleeding on the stage, on the page,
on the bathroom walls at the Mall
On the subways, in the sand
even writing on their hands
trying to save

….
what’s dying

This is why we slam.
this is how we resurrect the language
energy emitting from our bones like electricity
catchy beats and in your face attitudes
give flesh to the skeletal body
of poetry

This is why we slam.
because Poe wasn’t tough enough
Keats is too old fashioned for us
and the philosophical words of Robert Frost are foreign to us.

Today he who is shunned for his talented tongue
mush break the mold,
ignore the sweet sonnet and the subtle hiku
that is
misunderstood
modern day delinquents
those too ignorant to recognize
an onslaught of alliteration
                or
a well placed metaphor
those who find poetry
a bore

This is why we slam.
let our strength ring out through our voices

This is why we slam.
we speak our truths
pick off the paint covering the ugly reality

This is why we slam.
to be heard.

When the traditional beauty of Owen, Wordsworth and Dickenson
Just won’t do
us slam poets hear the call
and we come through

This is why we slam.
To face the harsh reality that is society
to attack
the politics,
the racism
the injustices
of life itself

Fast words whizzing from our mouths
from our hearts
slamming the ****** silence
and complacency
that has become today’s reality

This is why we slam.
To be heard,
to resurrect the dying art.

This is why we slam.

People say they want to live in a small town,
but when I look out my window
all I see is
Zero.

I look out my left window,
Zero.

I glance out my right window,
Zero.

The daily routines,
an Act Without Words.

We go through the motions in a small town,
get up, smile at people we hate,
hope for something more,
repeat.

In a small town
you bite your tongue,
just to keep the peace.
Did you bleed today?

There’s no point in asking
how someone is
because we already know.

Each new piece of gossip
strings us along,
Beckons
teases.


The small town will hold
anything over your head.
It will dangle a divorce
suspend a separation
and hang up a hook up.

In a small town,
the space between people’s teeth
revealed by their fake smiles
serve as cre-
Nells

People rave about the
fields of grass, and the trees.
In each patch of green
lies un lucky Clov-
ers
The fresh air is fetid.
The stink of the town’s
***** laundry is
enough to make
any argument for the town Null.
Zero.
It’s almost genetic,
the little Nagg-
lings in the school yard,
slicing, dividing, cutting
people like cake.

Settling for small town life,
is a fate worse than Hamm-
lets think about it.

No excitement.
No privacy.
No trust.
Zero.