The day I walked off a job,
without having another lined up,
the most pronounced emotion
that bubbled up through the stew
was that of liberation.
Positive as that may be,
most people equate self-determination
with the tranquility of happiness.
Certainly, one can lead to the other,
but staring at the stack of bills
shows us the bridge we must build
to span the divide
between freedom and our lives
requires our sweat and torment,
our blood and tears,
and often times,
our souls.

There are moments,
frozen capsules of time
burned into our brains.
Those memories feel
as if they'll outlive us.
Then there are the moments
that are forever lost,
and when a lover or friend
tells the story years later,
we quietly mourn
that memory's death.

-Ron Gavalik

On the sidewalk, in the spring rain,
she scowled at me hard,
the way a lion eyes its prey.
She stood motionless, silent, soaked.
The rain, or tears, rolled down her cheeks
and dripped from her chin.
An invisible rage radiated from her aura
that struck instant fear in the current of passersby
who rushed around her on that gray day.

My soul had been murdered before,
and so I figured, why not again.
Under the awning of that coffeehouse,
all I could do was not give a ****.
I lit my acid cigar and puffed
until the smoke clouded my vision.
That day, I would die or I would live.
Either way, there was no sense trying to control
events or time, when the inevitable rebirth
was certain, and would change everything.

The reasons for the standoff
and its conclusion are unimportant,
mere details we've all lived
and forgotten.

I don't really understand you,
your words, your actions.
Most people accept such ignorance
because they barely understand
themselves.
But I've taken the time
and I've spent the energy
to know myself, my truth.
Your presence gives me the desire
to dip my eyes in honey,
so my vision of you is clouded,
smeared, unclean,
much like my thoughts.

A flock of ducks on the riverbank
strolled through the grass, scrounging
for bugs and crumbs with their silly duck bills.
The birds mindlessly walked around
following each other, quacking and nibbling
the way ducks do.
There was this one colorful duck
who didn’t seem concerned with the flock.
His truth led him away
to find dinner elsewhere.
A few of the other ducks quacked at him
for flaunting his responsibility
to do what was expected.
That colorful duck ignored them all,
as if their opinions meant nothing.
He did his own scrounging, in style
while the orange sun skimmed the skyscrapers
before it set for the evening.

The sidewalks on Easter
are empty for the most part.
Few well-dressed parishioners
walk to and from their churches.
A **** woman with red lips.
wearing a little dress and heels,
she carries a cake. Her stressful frown
indicates she's marching
to the obligatory family dinner.
The sun shines bright
and the light breeze carries the chill
of lost friends.
In the distance, one can almost hear
voices call out in unison,
"He is risen!"

–Ron Gavalik