I went to see Dweezil Zappa
At the Plaza Live in Orlando
The pre-show music reel
Played a song by Iggy Pop

I didn't recognize the song name
So I opened Shazam on my Android phone
The image of an old Iggy
With "The Passenger" appeared

When I listened to the words
(Because the music was familiar)
He said " . . . and I ride, and I ride"
But how and when and why, I wonder

That was one night
There have been others.  Most with
No activity. No endeavors. Indoors.
Take a walk, have some ice cream

People gave them a lot of credit
Frank Zappa and Iggy Pop
Frank said ". . . is it the wave of the future?
"Oh, spare me. Please"

If Iggy spoke about Frank
It was of a lonely guy
But Iggy had other demons
He was to overcome

And I ride, and I ride.

Familiar enough, they live in the same flat
Sleeping on the other side of paper walls
Phone calls muffled.  Or clear as day
When nighttime drama has been peaked

Passing when scurrying
Off to work, out for a walk
Gone to the beach for a breather.
They politely nod with pleasantries and smiles

              The flat is surrounded
              By invisible but ever-present
              Life forms
              Who arrived recently

The three sages, the visitor, the novice
In the novitiate all strangers
We try hard.  To be civil, kind, pleasant
We would do well to have a warm relationship

Sitting at breakfast on Tuesday morning
Master encounters the viejo leaving
“oh, hi”
Frequently those would be
The only two syllables to pass
Each of their lips

               “We are here to guide, protect and educate”.
               The disembodied women and children
               Steeped in ages of tradition
               Have found their way here.  Or were they summoned?

Rising slowly the Master stops the flow
And cuts into recognized routine
“I have something for you,
I made it last night.”

That evening, Tuesday, another chance encounter
The docent, el viejo and the Master
Chat comfortably, alone, without the others
A quiet and peaceful cabal

               The building was a shop
               Or perhaps, a parts supply warehouse Which
               Upon installation of sacred statues
               Became a sanctuary.  With a loft

Do you practice in a particular way?
Are you comfortable in the expectations
When your inevitable death arrives
Are your wills stout and resolute?

You have heard of Kabbalah, of course
The concepts strange to me
Numerology
I’ll stick to what I know, goodnight.

               Let them go to slumberland
               Attend the special space
               Where they can see
               A Pure Land

i see the flyer at starbucks

"are you caucasian?
without mental health
and drug problems?"

wow
i don’t know the answer to any of these questions
is a jew a caucasian?
is the occasional naked, ****-slamming drunken rampage
a drug problem?
as for mental health
i’m a deadbeat poet and unpopular pop musician
i’ve got a job fighting death and boredom
and i just changed my facebook password to "eat ****"
my frustrations have driven weaker souls to homicide
but are these PROBLEMS?

Before my first day of school
I knew how to read and write

But mom thought it important
That I memorize
Our home phone number.

In retrospect
She worried that a stranger
Might sweep me up and secret me away.

How cute.
That one’s deepest fear
Would be kidnapping

And how sweet
That her dearest friend
The one she couldn’t bear to lose
Would be her five-year-old

Good times

It was raining on Sunday morning
They left the house and got into the van
It smelled like stale cigarette smoke
Spilled beer and nylon glue

Travelling over the bridge
From north to south
Then slightly east to bell parkway
A constant drizzle

The row house was typical
The driveway big enough for only one car
Sloped downward toward the house
From the street level above

Introduce ourselves
Remove the gear
Observe the task
Oh, great.  This will take a while.

They worked in quiet.  Not in silence.
Sleepy, groggy.  Tired and cranky.
The basement was damp
Unlit, as a cost saving measure
There they worked efficiently

Today would have been a day of rest for the help
With the grand mixture of cultures
Yesterday was the day of rest for the buyers
But we knew it when we signed up.

It was raining on Sunday morning
And they made a few bucks
The elder said things like “daddy-O” and “now, we’re cooking with gas”
The younger held his tongue.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.

If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.

If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.

If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds  
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?

If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.