An elaborate nightmare about fascists
running amok on nameless American streets
dominated a long sleep
after an endless week of servitude at the job.

In the nightmare, socialists in a nameless American town
battled torch-bearing white men without souls
in bland polo shirts and khakis.
A pervasive aroma of wood-fired smoke,
beer, and diesel fumes cut us off from the natural world
as the Neo-Nazis and their allies surrounded us.

In the throes of the crippling effects of dread and fear
the few of us, brothers and sisters of love and compassion,
the very young and the very old,
pushed forward to fight as warrior poets,
in remembrance of our grandparents,
for our children,
and for ourselves.

In the dream's periphery, blank faces of cowards
I've known for life looked on from sidewalks.
They refused to fight,
and instead they cracked sarcastic jokes
about both sides.

Bourbon whiskey
and dark chocolate
are tender injections
of love
for the people
who are not
in love

–Ron Gavalik

The poet
regularly battles the mob
and displays those scars
carved into his heart.
The poet
is despised in his time
and admired
by the generations
he never meets.

–Ron Gavalik

A sparrow landed in a city park
near a black cat sprawled out in the grass.
The bird began to chirp, chirp, chirp,
in the way drunkards ramble in bars.
Clearly irritated, the cat crouched low,
its ears back, ready to pounce.
After about a minute, the cat relaxed.
It must have figured killing the bird
would ruin the mellow mood of the day.
A moment later, the bird took off
and vanished in the trees.
The cat flopped itself
back into the grass.

-Ron Gavalik

Along the shore of the Allegheny River in Pittsburgh
a little girl of about seven, dressed in a track suit
threw chunks of bread to nearby ducks and geese.
The geese, twice the size of their mallard brethren,
aggressively pushed between the ducks
to gobble up each morsel.
The girl placed her hands on her hips
and scolded the winged despots for their greed.
A few of the ducks joined in the protest,
and quacked in solidarity, for justice.
The geese remained undeterred in their conquest.
Clearly frustrated, the little girl gave up.
She handed the bag of bread to her mother
and then ran off to join a group of older children
playing frisbee in a nearby grass field.
The ruling geese and the victimized ducks
continued to swim near the shore,
hungry and confused,
and without that reliable food source.

Calling out dead poets
as sexists or rapists or users
is the opposite of woke enlightenment.
The poet’s job is not to censor
his experiences or his madness
for sanitized comforts.
The poet’s truth is his gift
of insight, a naked wisdom
of hard love and difficult choices.
Narrow fools so often absorb
this sweat and blood poured onto the page.
After their souls are satisfied,
that’s when the fools unsheath
the long sword of ignorance
and ****** the blade square
in the poet’s back.

There’s a psychopath
at every job, a guy ready
to talk your ear off about socks
or a woman who admits
she has a fetish for hairy *****.
I met them in restaurants,
on construction sites,
and in bland offices.
As time went on,
the psychos disappeared.
I mentioned this to a coworker.
He stared at me cold,
the way I once looked at a guy
who went on and on
about his ****** addiction.

-Ron Gavalik

The kid with the beard and the ***** apron,
he's just trying to make it.
His shoes have small tears on the sides,
from the way water saturates and weakens the material.
He’s got this way of gliding from table to table,
the same way a dancer owns a stage.
He slides plates of salt-ridden tacos currently in vogue
to a roomful of overfed, undersexed office drones

A woman in a skirt and flip-flops rolls her eyes at a salad.
A ******* in a blazer flicks a ****** under the table.
Still, there's a twinkle in the kid’s eyes,
like he's on the make.
If the right circumstances unfold
he’d snag a loose twenty
from a wallet or a purse.

This is the server's life,
always under the thumb,
hated and stressed,
but always laughing
at the end
of each shift.

Sitting in the diner at 4:00 AM,
it's just me and the waitress,
and the trucker in the back booth
slowly sipping his coffee.
The waitress says she can't wait
until dawn so she can leave.
I don't have the heart to tell her
the trucker and I are desperately hanging on
to the last glimpses of moonlight.

Across the street, spray-painted words
are scrawled across a concrete wall
that read, ‘Live for today
because there is no tomorrow.’
Prophetic truths
that do not lead to tangible improvements
often lose their meaning, their power.
Communities lost and without direction
begin to decay.

A young writer
sat in my regular chair
inside the bookstore cafe.
He banged at the keys of his typer,
angry and without mercy.
Once he drained his coffee cup
the writer kept ******* at the rim
for a few remaining drops.
After staring blankly at the wall
for several minutes, the writer packed up
his supplies into a ratty backpack,
and walked out of the joint.
Finally, I figured, my chair had enough
of the games. It felt my presence
nearby and thus decided
we had sins to paint.

-Ron Gavalik

Inside the café, a cute artist
with blackened fingertips
sketched in her notebook.
A handsome boy took the next table
and waited patiently for a chat.
Sketching with a fervor,
oblivious to her surroundings,
that artist and I shared a truth.
Imagination is often preferable
to the daily realities
****** upon us.

–Ron Gavalik

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

Sometimes I'm the boy
who stood helpless
on my grandmother's porch
looking down the hill
upon Hell's fire
and the black plumes
that pushed men
into early graves

–Ron Gavalik

No matter how many showers
I take in the evenings
or in the afternoons,
I can't seem to wash away
that musky scent
from my thighs and fingers.
It's not always possible
to know how long the smell
of deception will linger.

When in doubt
spit on the sidewalk
and stare the ******* down
This procedure works
on violent men
It also works
on your own
madness

A lone black ant scurried
across the tile floor in the coffee shop.
Far from its colony, the ant marched
courageously on its journey
to find food and water for others.
Halfway across the barren floor,
the ant stopped. It turned to look
back at the road traveled, and then
turned to view the road to come.
The ant appeared lost
in thought or prayer.

After careful consideration,
that black ant continued its trek
across the desert landscape.
It would either fulfill its task
or risk death in the glorious attempt.
Fear, ever present, would not
control the ant’s short life
or be allowed to corrupt
its moral truth.

Go to sleep
Dream the dreams
only you can dream
alone
We will meet again
when our world faces
the other side
of the Milky Way

Dames, man
It's always the dames
that drain your
heart
wallet
and the will
to carry on
At least
they please
the senses

A terrible lover is similar
to a terrible piece of chicken.
You can choke it down
as expected, or cast
the remnants away
and move on.
Neither option is ideal,
but only one
is grounded in truth.

—Ron Gavalik

I needed cash for diapers.
The boss smelled
my desperation.
‘Muck out the floor drains.’
They stunk of *****.
No one else did it,
only me.

...from behind the counter,
she smiled at me in a deeper way.
Her eyes told stories
about ecstasy and the prison
of family life.
So, I went back to the table,
drank the coffee,
and I tried to exorcise
the temptations
through words.
The typer has always been
my most loyal lover.

–Ron Gavalik

I only think about you
at night
when consciousness
surrenders to regret
Madness then swims free
in a polluted oil
of memories
we call sin

A young man with ***** hands
walked into the bar.
He sat next to a blonde
of about the same age
and ordered a beer.
"Don't even try to talk to me,"
she said in an arrogant tone.
The young man didn't speak.
Defeated, he climbed off the stool.
He took a pull from the beer
and then dropped a crinkled fiver.
As he walked out the door,
the girl laughed out loud.
She showed us all
who was boss.

I can't write today
I wanted to write
but I can't
Lack of sleep
The humidity
Rain
Worries
Who really knows?
I just can't write
today

Our group filled
summer weekends
with fishing or camping.
Weekends are now
lonely.
People dissipate as smoke.
All that remains
are memories.

A teenage boy sat alone at a picnic bench along the river,
twirling the tip of a pocket knife on the table top.
He then flipped the knife a few inches in the air
and watched as the blade landed and
stuck perfectly straight into a table plank.
A slight smile of satisfaction
pulled across his face.

When the cops came to remove the boy
from society, they found him gently carving
the bark from a fallen tree limb.
He'd planned on crafting a walking stick
for an elderly neighbor.

A week later, after the tears,
after the news coverage,
the half-carved limb remained on the ground,
next to the picnic bench, alone.

‪Me and the typer ‬
we fight the world
with vicious fury
We shake mountains
Entire lakes
of tears ripple
as we live
our truth
as men

During mass on Sunday mornings
we would recite the Act of Contrition,
a prayer to request forgiveness of sins.
In humble voices, we asked for absolution
from God and from each other,
before the priest blessed the eucharist.
Most of our sins were encouraged in a world on fire,
but we owned up to them every week.
Hatred of our brothers and sisters,
the best drugs and the juiciest hookers,
these were our only escapes
from the bosses, the bills, the tax collectors.

Sin was how we stopped the perpetual slide
into total madness,
and the Act of Contrition,
that was how we kept our sins
from eating us alive.

Only **** the ones
you love
and only love the ones
who never ****
you over
That's our way, baby
the way of the world
the way of life

Opening your soul to the public
is to swim naked in the sewer
with scores of salivating rats.
The poseurs spill their low-calorie
compliments. The haters,
they drop the most sincere insults.
Depressed, angry, mad,
I walked into the kitchen.
Standing barefoot on the cracked tiles,
Hemingway finally made sense.
A bottle of cheap whiskey
next to the coffee maker,
it had a mouthful left to go.
I figured it would see me through
and that's what it did.

-Ron Gavalik

Survival of the fittest
is a lonely road
reserved for honored
champions
The weak and greedy
they choose deception
to overcome
challenges

In a building recess
between a whiskey bar and a vape shop
an old man sat on a rolled blanket.
He held a simple sign on a torn sheet of cardboard
that read "HONGRY."
The old man's face contained hundreds of deep crevices,
a lifetime of memories permanently imprinted,
much like the etchings found on old vinyl records..

A young man in a while golf shirt
Stumbled out of the whiskey bar.
He stopped in front of the old *** to regain his balance.
"Get a job," he said in slurred contempt.
"Do something with your life."

The old man stared through the drunkard,
In total silence,
the old man's worn face filled the sidewalk with the music
of his wisdom, his pain, his experiences.
The drunkard stumbled along,
deaf to that solemn gift of truth.

I loved you
every single day
especially those nights
you ******
other men
You're better than me
but you kept coming
back for more

When a drop of sweat
from your chin lands between
a lover's *******, some women
will recoil in disgust.
Others will moan and get off
on your labor to deliver pleasure.
The dame who digs a little sweat
during the younger years
will mop it from your forehead
in the nursing home.

-Ron Gavalik

While writing, a college girl
walked out of a nearby can.
‘You were in there a while,’ I said.
‘You’re not funny.’
‘Yes I am.’
‘*******.’

Bartending loses charm
when you mop puke
and haul garbage
down a fire
escape
A man has time to think
as he brushes
roaches
from his pants

Champions ignore temptations
of ****** and tramps
Warriors push past
crooks with legs
and stay on the path to
win the love of
the best
woman

Gazing at the city skyline at night
through the living room window
brings peace to raging thoughts.
From a distance, all one sees are lights,
they twinkle peacefully
against a black curtain.

The rapists and the drunkards,
the hookers and the fascists,
they're all hidden in the landscape,
right below the surface.

If we allow them to ****** us,
even for one succulent moment,
they will consume every last ounce
of our reason, our purpose,
and leave us in madness.

If you can't spit fire,
swallow hard,
and then slide out of the way.
Words and time
are far too valuable
to be wasted
by the amateurs
of life.

–Ron Gavalik

On late spring nights
a breeze through cracked windows
feeds silent madness
It screams louder than life
Memories flow as a river
Their resentment for my existence
once brought depression
After years of absorbing rancor
the onslaught of sandpaper words
ground my soul into flakes
carried away in the wind

Hollowed into a human cask
guilt has nothing to grasp
Hatred from others means little
Perhaps amusement
A muffled chuckle
breathed into the pillow
breaks the silence
until sleep

As a writer and poet who absorbs the world and then bleeds out truth, I'm finding it harder and harder to break through the political propaganda that television, radio, and web media has conjured to dominate and control so many minds. I can work around the programming by introducing abstract moral truths, but the moment I reference modern cultural, my work goes ignored.

I feel myself losing touch with a society that I’ve taken for granted my entire writing life. In a gluttonous feast of sensational media
that has proven nearly impossible to extricate ourselves,
we allow the power of profiteers and con-artists
to stream content into our minds that programs us
to accept unprecedented levels of violence.
We celebrate military-style police powers
to remove our freedoms of expression,
the rights to own property at reasonable expense,
and our most basic rights to life under a banner of liberty.
In an **** of hatred and greed, a large swath of society
has proven comfortable with exterminating
or imprisoning human beings for the color of their skin
or the origin of their birth in private-for-profit prisons.
Yes, I definitely feel we are lost in a spiral of human descent,
where there is no end, only torment and death.

-Ron Gavalik

When it rains
whiskey thoughts
wander in lust
Memories surface
of love and hate
That steady patter
contrasts
the chaos
we live

On Sundays, I drink
more coffee and more whiskey.
Reflections on the previous week
provide for accurate predictions
about the week ahead.
Books and snacks go down easily.
Attaining clear focus
helps the writer observe society
to build the words
that raise spirits
and raze evil.

–Ron Gavalik

Nothing feels so empty as easy satisfaction
that requires little effort or sacrifice.
As filthy Johns in search of ******,
we salivate over and consume
the blood and the passion
of the artists who offer their beauty
in the hopes of small rewards.
In a gluttonous feast, we take
what we want, and without
offering one cup of coffee
or even a slice of bread.

-Ron Gavalik

The guy who wore a scarf at the bar,
he chose not to write
because he's ‘no Hemingway.’
I told him no one stops me.
Memories of Ginsberg, Frost, Thomas,
and even Bukowski's drunken ghost
make me feel at home in my words.
That didn't change the guy's mind,
so I told him to drink up
and do something else.

-Ron Gavalik

When a man can hear
a woman's screams and sobs
thunder across an empty parking lot,
from a lone truck
partly hidden by the blanket of night,
that man is faced with a choice.
He can ignore the cries
and continue to move forward,
or he can turn and fight.
Such terrible options are rarely requested,
and no matter which decision he makes
that man will be haunted
during the quiet moments
for the rest of his life.

‪I am you‬
‪and you‬
‪are my enemy‬
‪Late at night‬
‪I plot your demise‬
‪In the mornings‬
‪regret‬
‪In the evenings‬
‪I beg forgiveness‬
‪The cycle‬
‪never ends‬

Coffee on Monday morning
carries a richer aroma
and a sweeter flavor
than the same brew
in the same cup
any other day of the week.
If our minds, our experiences
define so many of our tastes,
consider the satisfying joy a handshake
brings to a lonely old hermit.
Imagine the luscious splendor
of a long walk during a summer drizzle
after the endless confinements
of hospitals, doctors, and the funeral home
when she departed this realm.

I’m trying  <!DOCTYPE html>
<html> Baby, I’m trying <head>
<!-- HTML Codes by Quackit.com -->
I’m trying <title> to see through
all the weeds "width=device-width">
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is a futile effort.{font-family:Arial, sans-serif}
{font-family:Georgia, serif} This is our world
now, and I’m just trying ;14px;font
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to see
</head>
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of the weeds.

-Ron </head> Gavalik </body>

A dead Christmas tree
was set out with a neighbor's trash.
It lay sideways, stripped
of half its needles.
A brown cat sniffed
one of its branches,
but then sauntered away.
All relationships eventually
lose their charm.

-Ron Gavalik