"The **** has been
Caked on the fan
For so long
It can no longer spin.
We're choking on
Our own exhaust,
Debating over how to win
And who to blame
Once we've lost.
The truth is that
They're both the same,
Because what gets tossed
Comes back again.
The karmic boomerang
Holds sway over all,
Not the tang
Of pharmic poison
Fed to us by tall
White men
Who know how to talk,
Know how to convince
Us we need to swallow chalk
Flavored with artificial mint
To counteract
Our bubbling guts
And all the junk therein,
The salty snacks
And big mac meals
And lack of vitamins."

His rant was cut short
By a burst of nausea.
Pete leaned over on his
Ancient barstool
And vomited his
Last six drinks
And his last
Eight handfuls
Of peanuts
Onto the floor.
The stern face
Behind the bar
Came around
And screamed
At us to
Get the **** out,
Which was fine with me;
I hadn't yet
Paid for my drinks.

The humid air outside
Was like a damp pillow
Pressed over my mouth
After the air conditioned bar.
I parted ways with Pete,
And sauntered down
Newman Ave,
Taking periodic swigs
From my pint of gin.
The .38 my father
Brought home from the war
In Europe was tucked
Into my pants at my waist,
The box of bullets
In my coat pocket
Knocked against my chest With each step.
The sense of being followed
Was heavy in my head
As I turned onto
The bike path.
Maybe my son
Coming for a visit,
To stand in the trees
Where he thinks I can't
See him, silently
Watching my ritual.
"Maybe he'll come
Speak to me,"
I thought,
"Try to understand
Why I do
The things I do,
To see how
Hard life can be."
I loaded my pistol
And began unloading
Into the trees.