I’m the degenerate you love to hate,
the unclean sinner who won’t tow the line.
You ridicule my independence at dinner parties,
among similarly dressed cronies,
the institutionalized prisoners
of prestige.

Hate us all, the degenerates.
Scorn the indie musician on the sidewalk.
He colors the dull march of the khakis.
Despise the painter in welfare housing.
She strokes thick lines of anguish
upon uncomfortable canvases.
Taunt the quiet poet at the end of the bar.
He writes raw truth on napkins gone ignored.

Loathe the degenerates you secretly *****
when fashionable friends aren’t looking.
Eyes fixed upon your contemptuous smirk,
I am unable to cast judgment upon you.
Another degenerate spreads her tattooed thighs
without any hope of acceptance.
She only wishes to feel for a moment
the intoxicating sensation of
temporary love.

The degenerate’s ****** is the richest syrup
that briefly covers your vanilla routines.
Debauchery provides you a moment
to feel freedom within slums,
the pleasures of darkness,
the uninhibited passions of a life
without approval.

The rain fell so hard
and so fast for so long
I'd almost forgotten the peace
of warm breezes.
Huddled in the dank corner
of madness, faith is absent.
Tranquility is but a dim memory,
a speck of light
we never even hope
to reach again.

-Ron Gavalik

My thoughts
never dwell on you
not even when I see tree branches
reach for the sun
like your arms
when the doctor said
the cancer
was gone

Saturday evenings at sunset
the young lie in wait
as vampires,
ready to feast on fresh flesh
the night offers in sacrifice.
No one is safe
from the pleasures and perils
of rabid desires.

You don't hate me
because I ****** you.
That's far too simple, baby.
I communed with you,
and I devoured your spirit.
From the husk that remains,
you must find wisdom
to regrow that which you were,
and know life will never be
quite the same.

-Ron Gavalik

She said,
‘You really don’t know
how to love.’
I disagreed.
The next one said,
‘You don’t express love.’
I disagreed.
The last one
didn’t say anything.
She just walked.
Now, I agree.

–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.

The best whiskey goes down
smooth as the silky tongue
of a curvaceous young woman.
There are times when we desire
sips from brands known to bite
the back of the throat
with the gratifying sting
of fingernails dug in
between our shoulder blades.
Funny how the sensations
of pleasure and pain
have more in common
than we realize.

A black man in his fifties
with pockmarks all over his face
shuffled in my direction on the sidewalk.
He carried a plastic shopping bag
that appeared to contain a sweatshirt.
His pants were torn near the knee
and he wore old fashioned leather shoes
that had probably seen more miles and time
than any pair of shoes, or feet
should ever have to endure.

‘Excuse me,’ I said as we approached.
‘I'm wondering if you're Christ.’
The man grinned, revealing yellow, decayed teeth.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘Fine. Just don't tell anyone else.’
The man then continued on his way.
I headed home
to make a sandwich.

The problem with people-watching
in the middling suburbs outside Pittsburgh,
is everyone looks like they’re related,
a little too similar, bad photocopies
of the same dull morality.
The girls have similar haircuts
and the boys wear similar shorts.
The men and women,
they cannot stomach the ‘F’ word,
but they adore efficient order
enforced through totalitarian violence.
Chemical air fresheners are pumped
through department store ventilation systems.
Perhaps the compound is designed
to induce complacency for the status quo
and suppress everyone's style
or sense of fashion.

Outside one of Pittsburgh's many suburban malls
a middle-aged woman wearing a colorful hijab
held the hand of a little boy of about eight
as they walked past the entrance of a department store.
Three teenage boys leaned against a nearby wall.
One teenager wore a printed t-shirt of a confederate flag.
All three of the teenagers pointed at the woman.
They laughed with a roar of contempt
that exerted dominance over the sidewalk.
The little boy hugged that woman's leg.
He sobbed into the material of her long dress.
The teenager wrapped in the confederate flag,
he put his hands behind his head
and leaned back against the wall
in victory.

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.

You don't know me.
I’m warning you now,
don't even consider knowing me
or pretend to know me.
I've beaten lesser men
and poisoned the hearts
of lesser women
for trying to know me.

I am aggressively alone in distant observation,
away from unpredictable friends
who often transform
into entirely predictable enemies.

Alone is my simple form of silent tranquility
with my thoughts and my words
and my unfulfilled dreams.
The silhouette of a single Canadian goose
stands majestically on the shore
of the summer river
below the orange city skyline at dusk,
or the smell
of your old leather jacket
and a soft kiss
that partially wakes me
before you leave in the early morning
to never return.

In the most ferocious winter storms,
there are people of honor
who will share their gloves.
During times of war,
some children continue to dream.
When famine strikes,
old men find the will
to be generous.
In a mall parking lot,
drivers will ram you to death
for a spot ten feet closer
to the door.

In younger years, I dreamt
about flying over lakes and mountains,
and I dreamt about *******
slutty women in ****** motels.
Sometimes I battled noble samurai
on ancient Japanese hillsides.
I've lived out those subconscious musings
in one form or another.
Now, I rarely remember dreams.
The few that stand out are simple
reflections of life's boring troubles.
Maybe the trick is to find new adventures
that will keep our dreamscapes active,
interesting, forever alive.

On Sundays,
most people go to brunch with family
or take walks to lazy coffees shops
to meet with friends.
Some of us gaze out windows
to dream the dreams
we can only dream
away from the distractions
that rule our lives.

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

Laying in bed alone, again,
in gray boxers and a whiskey stained t-shirt,
half drunk at 3 AM.
The few rational thoughts still rattling around
are pushed aside by creeping madness,
clobbered by the disillusionment of worthlessness
and death.

Closing my eyes brings anxiety.
Fifty-foot brick walls erupt from the ground.
The walls tower over the bed.
The walls imprison me
from the beautiful, ignorantly blissful people.
THEY do not enjoy reminders of their racism,
their hatred, their greed.
When the inevitable arrives,
THEY will barely remember
the fat nobody, the over-read slob,
the abrasive writer, with no cash and
no woman.

In this sick fantasy,
two simple-minded jerks spew a few flippant lines
and that’ll be all she wrote.

‘Ever hear from Gavalik?’
‘Who?’
‘Big guy. Writer or something.’
‘I think he's dead.’
‘Really? These are some good mozzarella sticks.’
‘THEY really are.’

The sun during winter
often plays the role of trickster,
a false prophet of hope.
Its rays of light bounce off
parked cars and shop windows,
luring us out of our cozy beds
under the guise of a warm embrace.
As fools, we venture outdoors
and believe the air will not assault us.
Unfortunately, we discover winter
has conned the sun to help it
carry out the vengeance
of a scorned Iover.

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

The same old scents
never change.
They make me laugh
into the steel sink.
I do it for the echo.
I like the echo.
It proves
I am still here
for now.

–Ron Gavalik

The most romantic moment
I've ever lived happened in a city park
during a human rights rally.
A **** brunette made eyes at me
and my tattoos. I waved to her.
She grinned and waved back.
Later on, while a speaker shared
his thoughts on aiding the poor,
that same woman raised her fist
and proclaimed we are all
brothers and sisters.
Afterwards, she was gone.
She had vanished
in the crowd.

-Ron Gavalik

The cost of TRUTH
may at times burden
our mental energy and our wallets,
especially when we are delivered
so many cheap, comfortable lies.
TRUTH, however, is the tonic
that heals and fortifies our minds
against the constant flood of toxic oil
that pours from the gullets
of poseurs and profiteers.

The few who summon the courage
to embrace TRUTH are transformed
into angels of light. They rise above
the sewage of violence and hatred
of so many polluted minds,
the diseased souls condemned
to whither in misery.

‪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

The ignorant
who oppose
political discourse
are not enlightened.
The American experience
is an ongoing
debate.
Freedom is a continual
fight.

All I ever wanted
was to be left alone.
The more I ran,
the faster the cockroaches pursued
with their false friendships
and self-serving greed.

A man grows tired, sagged,
and his body slows,
his mind withers,
as death approaches.
This is not from old age,
but from thousands of stabs
delivered by forked tongues
of friends and enemies,
and his women.

As the spirit escapes
and runs
from the madness,
its the soul which finally
has the last laugh
in the darkness,
alone

Create art
every day
If you cannot
then make just one
piece of art
which is the work of life
Make it imperfect
and worthy of memory
every day

–Ron Gavalik

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

If you seek an education,
go to a university
or a trade school.
If you want to learn,
talk to the bums, the ******
the immigrants in fields.
They’re the experts
on humanity.
Their wallets are as empty
as their stomachs,
but their souls
are dipped in gold.

–Ron Gavalik

Some people say
the universe will
soon end.
But, would any father
give his children a book
and take it away
before they’ve read
every page?

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.

Hiding behind text messages
we believe immunizes the heart
is a forced loneliness
a perpetual confinement
in a dark room, with low music
which only breeds madness

In such famine, the body desires touch
the soul craves fellowship
the mind requires intellectualism
laughs between true friends
and shared tears
of kindred spirits

Once we can no longer bear starvation
comes the gluttonous feast
As wretched hogs at a trough
any form of attention is consumed
to fill the growing chasm of
worthlessness

Blinded by false admiration on backlit screens
the body, the soul, and the mind savors
cheap flattery of dark temptations
Vulgarity drools thick as blood from blackened lips
The sweet tinge of grief
that bitter hit of hatred
spirals descent into the dark void
that forever hides the light

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.

As the old hamburger joint
burned to the ground,
dozens of people looked on
from neighboring parking lots.
Some witnesses were attracted
to the excitement of the event
and the sirens of emergency services.
Others were hypnotized by the fire's
violent licks that danced upon the roof.
A minority of us used the moment
to imagine, to dream
of what the future would hold
for the community.

One autumn day on a stroll to the cigar shop
I sought out dead leaves on the sidewalk
and stepped on them
for that satisfying potato chip crunch.
A little boy, who stood with his parents
near the entrance of a restaurant,
stared at my peculiar walking style,
with squinted eyes and a crinkled nose
as if I were crazy.

After picking up a 60 gauge acid,
I stood on the corner to light up.
That's when I saw the same family
walking in my direction,
and that **** kid purposely stepped
on every dried leaf he could find
for that satisfying potato chip crunch.

I blew a large cloud of smoke
as they approached,
so that kid would know he was being watched.
My only hope is that he learned
there's often a world of difference
between what we observe
and what we experience
first hand.

A lone fisherman in his retirement years
sat in a folding chair just off the bike trail
along the Monongahela River.
‘Any look today?’ I asked.
‘Doesn't matter,’ he said.
‘I started fishing years ago
to get some time alone.
Any time I'm here I feel lucky.’
The smile across his face
proved his point.

It was just past 2:00 am
on a lonely new year's eve.
I drove across the Rankin Bridge
and noticed a gold flame dance
atop a stack at the mill.
I stopped the car
in the middle of the bridge
and walked over to the rail.
In the darkness above the river,
the suffering didn't exist.
It would return
with the sun.

-Ron Gavalik

Over years of sin,
the memories, the faces,
they're obscured by a fog
of whiskey and regret.
But I never really hurt anyone.
I was far too busy
damaging myself.

-Ron Gavalik

There's something peculiar
about witnessing courage
in the face of hatred
True righteousness hits me deep
It flourishes from within
the way epiphanies bloom in scholars
or the way love overwhelms
young students

There's majesty in the underdog
who stands until his knees buckle
who shouts until her voice breaks
fueled only by fortitude
mocked for feeling empathy
hated for living truth

In moments of moral principle
I see peace amidst the chaos
poetry amidst the prose
in the eyes of the young
and in the old
who fight
for justice

From an early age before preschool,
there was one Pittsburgh man inside a box
who showed us how to find one’s bliss,
he set the tone to lead a happy life.
While I sat on the sofa, pillow hugged tight,
the Pittsburgh man in a box taught me
the virtue of kindness and curiosity.
He taught me make believe.

When I grew up, life’s temptations
pushed aside his lessons.
I traded the Pittsburgh man in a box
for the gluttonous abuses
of flesh and *****, soul-murdering hatred,
and the pursuit of greed.

One early morning, around 8am
I crawled out of bed,
careful not to disturb the woman
whose name had been lost in a fog of whiskey.
I walked into the living room,
switched on the TV, and there he stood,
the Pittsburgh man inside a box.
His gentle manner, his big imagination
revealed a simple truth:
I’d chosen the wrong path.

One day at the job, the sad news came.
The Pittsburgh man in a box had died.
He contracted stomach cancer.
That night the TV played his old shows.
I sat on the sofa, pillow hugged tight,
and said goodbye.

Laying on my back
in the alley,
drunk and sick,
I gazed at the blanket of stars.
The cosmos above revealed
itself as an endless sea
of lost hopes
and sacred prayers.
In that moment,
I was free.

-Ron Gavalik

The lovers and the fighters
both know that bitter
sweet tinge of struggle.
They are also the free souls
who deliver truth and emotion
upon apathetic servants.
Adorned in empty gray suits,
the mob lives only to criticize
those who rise above
the mundane.

-Ron Gavalik

Sometimes I think I love best
from afar,
observing impossible conquests
from behind crowds
of maniacs on sidewalks.
Sometimes I love through written notes
to people in far away places.
When up close, reality stops
the imaginings.
I dream of far better love
than I live.

-Ron Gavalik

Rubber dolls are lovers.
Camoflouage is fashionable.
Armpit hair is dyed.
Clean water is scarce.
Cable programs are news.
Politicians are leaders.
Hot pockets are food.
Trump is a genius.
Country is music.
...and we wonder why
our society is lost.

-Ron Gavalik

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

I often see my life's work
as a style of wrapping paper
meant to entice the eventual recipient
who receives my soul.

If each one of us is a gift
of life's magnificent bounty,
then it must be true
that someday
we will be presented
to life's loving companion,
the peace of death.

It is with this in mind
that I shall work to ensure
the wrapping paper sparkles
brighter than the summer stars
and contains more colors
than we could ever see
in a rainbow.

Indoors on a cold night
two days before the year's end,
a tall glass of whiskey,
and acoustic reinterpretations
of Pink Floyd fills the house.
No human has visited heaven
and returned to describe the afterlife,
but if it's anything like this,
I'm ready to give up the job,
the bills, and the disappointment
for a ride on that cloud.

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

In front of the bar
a thin guy in an oil-stained t-shirt
pulled out a pack of cheap cigarettes
from his front jeans pocket.
"You got a light, buddy?"
I pulled out my black Zippo.
He turned his pack upside down
and a single gold coin fell into his palm
along with a half-smoked cigarette.
"What's with the coin?"
"I always carry it," he said.
"If I drop dead,
I want the ******* who finds me
to have a good day."