Sins boomerang.
If I teach you nothing else
in this short life,
please remember,
violence begets violence,
hate begets hate,
and good intentions
executed with incompetence
begets harsh revenge
from the people
we claimed to help.

Sins are almost always hurled
with the strength of our passion.
When they return,
they come fast, unforgiving,
and with the determination
to destroy.

I opened the door at a diner
to leave after a late night meal.
A cold blast of winter air
startled a guy who stood five feet away.
"Sorry," he said, without really looking at me,
as if the word was a knee-**** response
that lacked any thought or meaning.

Days later, I still have no idea
why the guy apologized.
In the social media age,
kindness and humility
have been replaced
with intimidation, approval,
and the seductive allure
of narcissistic validation.

After a tough week at the job,
a coworker slid on her coat.
"It's a Long Island Iced Tea kinda night,"
she said in a flat tone,
and with a straight face.
"Whatever gets the job done,"
I said, hoping she’d smile
at our brief liberation.
Instead, she stared through me,
as if I'd spoken some great truth.
She then walked out of the building
without saying goodbye.

-Ron Gavalik

The heavy dark eyeshadow
that wrapped around your blue gems
projected a depth
I later learned you simply didn't have.
Standing on the sidewalk,
kicking pebbles against a brick wall,
Dave approached.
I didn't speak. There was nothing
to say, and he read the sorrow on my face.
‘They can't all be artists,’
he said in a humorous tone.
We studied the complex surface of the moon
in silence, for at least fifteen minutes
before we parted for the night.

There are people of substance
all around us
who explore their worlds.
These people read books,
help their neighbors,
and eat delicious food with family.
These people laugh hard from the gut.
They pray and weep
over lost friends and lost causes.

Surrounded by so many unfortunate souls
who live in perpetual dumpster fires,
the occasional conversation
with someone who truly lives
is a rare gift of life.

At the coffee shop, a young black man in glasses
asked if he could plug his laptop
into the same outlet that charged my typer.
While he pulled the cord out of his backpack,
I asked if he had homework.

‘No," he said. "I'm looking for a job.’
‘What kind of job?’
‘Any job,’ he said
and let out a desperate kind of snort
usually only heard from older men,
humiliated by the world,
beaten down by life.

‘****'s tough out there, kid.’
‘I know the platitudes,’ he said.
He then stuck his nose into the screen.
I walked up to the counter for a refill,
to give the boy a little space.

The new generation,
they know how to use words
like platitude, but they can’t earn
enough for a home and internet
to avoid the men who use them
in place of real solutions.

After a long week at the job,
the demon voices in our heads scream in fury,
they rage at our better angels
who agreed to the working life,
all those many years wasted
on waged servitude.
After a long week of torment,
the voices of the demons
grow so loud and violent,
that we have no choice, but to escape
in the bottle, the powder, the *****.
No matter how intoxicating the self-abuse
those demons continue to murmur.
Much in the way we’re indentured
to the system that imprisons us,
the demon voices in our heads
will never leave.