Imagine you've been tortured,
ridiculed, hated by the masses.
As you bleed to death on top of a hill,
another tortured soul asks you
for forgiveness for his sins.
The man did nothing to you,
but he feels the need to confess.
Writhing in pain, you want to die,
if only to end your own torment.
But instead, you listen to the man,
and you grant him your truest love, forgiveness.
You tell him he will soon be in paradise
with you, and you ******* mean it.
That's why some of us have faith
and we fight for the poor,
the marginalized, the despised.
They can **** us, as they so often do,
but they will never win.

Good memories
drip slowly through the mind
They are drops of spring rain
that fall on my shoulders
from the train bridge
above the sidewalk
where we talked
for hours

In life, you brought laughs
and relief in tense moments.
You traded me tobacco
for ***** and friendship.
You died this week. I’m sad
for your loss, but I have not wept.
I still hear the humorous timber
of your voice, and I remember
the way you let things slide.
That’s your gift. The memories
of our chuckles together
dissolved my tears.

-Ron Gavalik

When the proles see in reds,
the rich lose their heads.
Bathed in the blood of villains,
workers dance and laugh,
they **** and love.
****** are redeemed.
Books are embraced.
Drink is consumed.
The blue-green Earth,
after such a long abuse,
is finally reclaimed.

At dusk, under gray skies,
whiskey thoughts wander
in the lust of lost hopes.
Memories surface
of forgotten love
and the memorable rage
of injustice.
We are the chaos.
We are the solution.
We are the beginning
and the end.

–Ron Gavalik

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

I came up in Pittsburgh,
the Rust Belt of hard labor
with a deep love of community.
As children, we collected railroad spikes
from the tracks and we cut our shins
on random iron shards in **** hills.
Some of us were union middle-class
and others breathed the gray air of poverty.
That hardly mattered. As we stood atop
foothills that overlooked the city skyline,
soot embedded under our fingernails,
we lived as kings and queens
that oversaw the future.

-Ron Gavalik

At this sushi joint,
she searched for the words
to describe her dinner.
‘It's heaven,’ she said, ‘Yes, heaven.’
Call me a simpleton, but divinity
on Earth is the sweet tinge of bourbon,
the smoke of an acid 60 gauge
that rolls over the tongue,
and the music of Pink Floyd
with the lights off.

-Ron Gavalik

A ******* dog without a leash
walked up to me on the sidewalk.
"Hello, dog," I said.
It didn't sniff me or lick me,
but instead sat right next to me
and leaned against my leg.

My first thought was that the
spirit of my late father or grandfather
had come to check up on me,
and for a moment, the stress
of the bills and the job were gone.

Then a young guy in a designer track suit
and moussed hair jogged toward us.
The dog got excited, jumped up,
and took off down the sidewalk.
“I hope he didn't bother you,"
the guy said as he ran past.
"Nope. He made my day."

There's a small space
between the tip of a pen
and the fibers of notebook paper.
As it is with many truths,
that space cannot be seen.
Still, that small space is a universe
of holy ground where the miracle
of one’s soul is streamed
into the physical world
for all to see.

-Ron Gavalik

I really have no idea
how anyone can love a writer.
We're great observers,
but terrible people.
Marry a carpenter or a welder.
They know how to build
things worthy of your heart.
All a writer can do is howl
at the moon in madness
and chase the dreams
that never come.

-Ron Gavalik

Humans need
less inspiration and more answers,
less hope and more truth,
less spectacle and more words,
less *** and more love.
We need to listen and understand,
drink water, eat good food,
laugh, kiss, and weep
until a long sleep.

–Ron Gavalik

We are the hunted
the hated
who run in packs
separate but equal
rarely together
but with similar purpose
a singular goal
to make it
through life

We are despised
for our existence
Some are fat, yet starved
Others are slutty and ravenous
Every day is a struggle
We **** and feast
fight and pray
and too often
we lose

Love is fleeting
never predictable
It's the knowledge, you see
We are but temporary
lovers, workers, friends
That truth brings about
the sadness
the madness
the end

If you want to know
where to find the gambling,
ask a bartender.
if you want to know
where to find Jesus,
ask a prisoner.
If you want to know
where to find love,
ask yourself.

-Ron Gavalik

In the meadows of the countryside,
we're hypnotized by the stars
and the mysteries of the cosmos.
On the sidewalks in the city,
we're hypnotized by the lights
and the mysteries of human dynamics.
No matter where we stand
when we gaze upwards
there's always space for imagination
and wonder.

‪I don't just love you;‬
I love your imperfections,
those hard memories
beneath kind eyes,
when I watch you
gaze out my window
every morning

I often have no clue
what words will come
when pouring blood
onto the page.
The soul has a life
and a will of its own.
Sins and truths, much like smoke,
live in the surrounding air.
They wait for someone
to inhale.

-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

Back in the small town,
we hung around the gas station
in the afternoons and at night.
We drank cartons of iced tea
and laughed about nothing.
We watched others live
the lives we wanted,
but weren't quite ready
to begin.

—Ron Gavalik

Sidewalks and lovers
grow discolored
from unsuspected joys,
tormenting stampedes,
and the spilled blood
they endure.
It happens slowly
over time.

–Ron Gavalik

When the poetry doesn't work,
don't sweat it.
Get up from the chair
and go for a walk,
pet a strange cat,
befriend a blind man
on the sidewalk.
Few items are made of paper,
and the best poetry
is not printed on it.

–Ron Gavalik

I may never understand
you. For certain,
you will never understand
me. That’s okay.
It’s the mystery, baby
that keeps the heart pumping.
I can’t think of another reason
to allow the blood to remain
in my veins.

–Ron Gavalik

Late at night in the quiet,
when we relax the stranglehold
over our minds,
that's when our imaginations
can finally run wild
as stallions on the unending beach
of our limitless cosmos.
During these moments,
it's common to feel anxiety,
but once we scale over that wall
we are then free
to be the heroes
of our dreams.

You should know,
I love the way
you mourn
the end of laughter
in the silence of night.
When the laughs return
you rejoice.
I always smile.

This leather bag and I,
we've tasted a bit of the world
on dirt trails and city sidewalks,
inside cars, buses, and planes.
This leather bag and I have done battle together.
We've struck intellectual blows in classrooms,
and we've celebrated success in board rooms.
The bag and I even laugh about that time
it blocked a drunk's fist aimed at my kidneys.
Few people believe in the loyalty of a bag.
They seek devotion, love from other people,
only to suffer great disappointment.
This leather bag and I,
we're the best of friends.
That's how it is
and that's how it will always be.

Many years ago,
while taking an early spring walk
near the University of Pittsburgh,
I noticed a deep crack in the sidewalk,
and within the crevice
someone had wedged a lego action figure.
I'd considered removing the toy
as a keepsake of the first day outside
after a brutal winter,
but instead I allowed it to remain
as a small part of the urban landscape.
For several years, I took early spring walks
along the same part of the city,
and every year the lego man,
a little more weathered,
greeted me as an old acquaintance.
Eventually, the city replaced the sidewalk,
and like so many loose friendships,
based on convenience and circumstance,
the lego man was gone.

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

In our young adult years,
the novelty of liberation
sparked our imaginations.
We stayed out all night
in diners and on the streets.
We ****** whomever we chose
without fear
of man made consequences.
We penned horrible stories,
painted absurd portraits,
and drew the weakest comics.
Still, we were free spirits
with fresh souls
that we truly believed
would live forever.

There's a beauty that emerges
within those who have the courage
to break with conventional thinking.

The worker who finally tells off the boss,
no one owns him.
The **** who ignores the shaming,
she enjoys being enjoyed.
The father who embraces his gay son,
his career status be ******.

That flicker of confidence
in the eyes of those who awaken
to their truths
is living art, a gift
that each of us
can experience.

‪Loneliness‬
‪is a contagion‬
‪of the mind‬
‪fueled by propaganda‬
‪from toxic allies‬
‪Believe it or not‬
‪we live and breathe‬
‪succeed and fail‬
‪together‬

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.

I was once beaten
hard
by a large man
with red fire eyes
and froth on his lips.
Don’t worry, baby.
I gave as good
as I got.
That day, I learned
to survive.

-Ron Gavalik

‘***?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘Ugh.’
‘Pl­ease?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘No.’
‘Now­?’
‘Ok.’

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

‪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

The ignorant always smile, not in bliss, but in narrow self-righteousness. Geniuses are kind within bubbles that float to the tops of white towers. The societal mid-range of people, the ones who know just enough to be afraid, these people carry the greatest burdens.

Sitting in traditional wooden pews
back in the mid-2000s,
a guest priest from the heart of the Congo
delivered a homily in broken English
about how his country had been torn to shreds
by warlords who control that region's
vast and valuable mineral deposits.

As the priest spoke in gentle passion,
a sea of sympathetic white faces listened
to him describe the rapes and murders,
the poverty and oppression.
One middle-aged woman in a yellow dress near the front
quietly sobbed at the reminder of true suffering,
a torture greater than mere death.

Out of a sense of courtesy
or possible humble generosity,
the priest did not disclose the minerals
that had brought on such gluttonous violence
were the very elements that make our electronics
flash and glow as perpetual escapes.

Instead, the priest requested
we pray with him
for future mystical solutions
to immediate physical problems.

As we filed out of the church
the older woman who'd wept
discussed driving to the local mall.
Apparently, there'd been a sale on mobile phones.
The crisp spring breeze had dried our tears,
and the power of the almighty dollar
wiped away our curiosity
and our short-term memories.

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">
<style> of our modern landscape
but I know my search {:left;background}
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
</style>
to see
</head>
through
<body>
the madness
</body>
of the weeds.

-Ron </head> Gavalik </body>

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.

Sometimes on late Monday nights
I'll climb out of bed,
get dressed,
and walk outside
into the middle of the street.
The lack of cars and people
brings peace.
It's just me,
accompanied by the steady hums
of building ventilation systems.
I often think about old friends
long gone.

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

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

All that really matters
in this short life
is how well we dance
through the fires in our paths.
That bitter taste in the morning
of waged servitude,
the dire consequences of *******
long and deep for simple pleasures,
and the eternal quest for imagined love,
these are the fires of our early deaths.
Warriors fight their enemies
to the point of exhaustion and collapse.
The dancers, the artists,
they use their nimble bodies
and creative minds to shuffle between
the hottest coals
with style and grace.

In city traffic one fall morning,
a driver of a rusted white sedan,
probably on the way to a job,
sped through a red light
at the top of a hill,
near a school zone.

A woman in pink sweat pants
grabbed the backpack attached to her young son
and yanked him close
as the sedan swerved in the crosswalk
at the last moment
before obliterating them both
on the street.

In bars and in churches
and all over social media,
we question our violent culture.
No one seems to have the answers,
yet we ignore the truth.
We're expected to suspend our humanity,
to **** anyone who crosses our paths
for the privilege to work and earn,
all so we can eat.

I only love you
at night
when loneliness
fuels desire
and
desperation
replaces
rational thought

Your value is reflected
in an empty whiskey bottle
sideways
on the stained carpet

Funny how everything
is eventually
neglected

I lied, baby, and I'm sorry.
The truth is I never loved you.
Watching you share your passion,
hearing you sing really turned me on.
I loved ******* you,
filling you with my pain,
watching you take your punishment.
But I will never love you.
The passion is over.
My **** is dry.
Goodbye.

...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 loved you
until I didn’t.
That’s how it goes.
I’m sure the answers
are out there to be plucked
like cherries or heart strings,
but I have none of them.
Leaves fall. Hearts break.
Whiskey is swallowed.
That’s life.

-Ron Gavalik

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

I've heard feminists say
working class men have too much power.
That kind of naievety was once cute,
but now as working men are criminalized
and gunned down in the streets,
that kind of toxic hatred
has grown dangerous.
The problem isn't that working men
have too much power,
it's that they have no power at all,
and they are slowly being enslaved
in ******* jobs, in prisons,
and in endless financial debts.
Working men have been robbed
of their power, their dignity,
and their ability to care
for the communities
that now decay
in ruins.