I’ve never preferred turkey.
That bland taste is the reminder
of the bland jobs and the lovers
with bland imaginations.
When we give thanks,
I bow my head in reverence
for the perpetual fight.
That dash of ferment
snatches a glimmer of life
from the march toward
our insipid decline.

—Ron Gavalik

There was a time
when the sight of your lips
made me want to **** you
inside bar bathrooms
and atop the kitchen counter.
Those days are now gone,
and I no longer have any desire
to own you. There is nothing
remaining inside to give or say.
So I will walk away
alone, upon tired sidewalks
to never love again.

—Ron Gavalik

An older woman at the bar,
danced alone near the jukebox.
Eyes closed, she swayed her hips
to some kind of old school jazz.
Cigarette smoke hovered around her
on the makeshift dance floor.
The smoke contoured to her body,
it clung to her reckless past.
The chain-smoking drunkards
hollered and giggled as cowards.
One of them would **** her
before the night ended.
All I could do was watch
and write this poem
in my mind.

-Ron Gavalik

After the most abhorrent violence,
during times of misery and sorrow,
a wise man will sit in a dark room
and reflect on his truths.
In rage, he will curl his fingers
into the tightest fists.
In sadness, he will weep
for all that has been lost.
In his chair, the wise man will drink
his whiskey, and then he will stand up
and fight back against the hate.

-Ron Gavalik

Today, my Jewish brothers and sisters
in the greatest city on Earth
were gunned down by a man
poisoned with hatred,
that bitter hit of political rage.
Tonight, imperfect souls will gather
to hug and weep and scream.
As we gaze upon so many fierce tears,
I pray we absolutely never
go quietly into that goodnight.

-Ron Gavalik

I've met many men on sidewalks,
at jobs, in bars and cafés.
Some of these men held
strong principles. Others
sold their minds and bodies long ago,
usually to rather low bidders.
Of all these men of youth and age,
colors and religions, I still prefer
my own company the most.

-Ron Gavalik

The best poem
came to me last night
while shaving.
I didn't write it down,
and now,
much like the shaving cream
that slithered down the drain,
those words are gone.

-Ron Gavalik