Simple words
that pour from the simple lips
of simple men
with simple minds
and simple values,
have always led to simple choices
and simple hatred
by simple followers,
who simply march over simple cliffs
to their simple deaths.

I've always preferred the sinners,
the modest and damaged souls
who understand our vast imperfections.
The righteous and their values,
they've never embodied the ideal
way of life so many others pursue.
Give me the drunkard, the ****,
the pauper who blows powder
and his harmonica under the bridge.
They are my truths
in an ocean of lies.

Sins boomerang.
If I teach you nothing else
in this short life,
please remember,
violence begets violence,
hate begets hate,
and good intentions
executed with incompetence
begets harsh revenge
from the people
we claimed to help.

Sins are almost always hurled
with the strength of our passion.
When they return,
they come fast, unforgiving,
and with the determination
to destroy.

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 old cashier at the car dealership,
she chain-smoked skinny, long cigarettes
all day, every day.
Her voice sounded like a bullfrog
that recently learned how to curse and laugh.
The crease lines around her mouth
and the folds in her neck
conveyed a relaxed style, confidence
earned from a hard life
and dangerous choices.

Sometimes there were no customers
in front of the cashier’s window
and no mechanics busting her chops.
That's when she’d rest her elbows on the counter
and cradle a skinny cigarette
between ******* near her cheek.
That woman’s eyes would gaze outside,
glossed over in what looked like daydreams
about all those lovers, in their graves,
and their cliché widows
with their tiresome grandchildren
and their sanitized lives.

Back in the day,
men in gray suits and skinny ties
never could resist her,
but then again,
so few ever tried.

On the TV stand in front of me
sits a sculpture of a skull.
No matter where I sit
the skull stares at me.
It haunts me,
and reminds me
of my fragile mortality.
Still, I won't turn the skull away.
We're locked in a test of wills,
even though I know
in the end
I won't win.

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

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

As the **** of a 12-dollar cigar
touches the tip of the tongue,
the nervous system shoots a signal to the brain,
to process the sweet tinge
of delicious poison
that hits the back of the throat.
Slow suicide, baby,
really doesn't get any smoother.

Human bodies may desire health,
but it’s the mind that struggles
and tests mortality
as the heart races
for the best ****.

Hipsters and their vapor pipes,
their overpriced organic groceries,
coke binges and ****** addictions,
gym memberships and spinning classes,
they’re socialized to believe life
goes on forever.
They behave as if death
is a kind of curse.

We can run from sins,
wash our souls in the rain
of fresh lovers in new cities.
Sins, however, collect.
They grow in strength.
All we have in the end,
is the sweet tinge of satisfaction
that comes from killing oneself
in style.

The fresh snowfall is celebrated,
adored for its natural beauty,
a wintertime treat.
The novelty of that beauty vanishes
with time and new fascinations.
As we step on and drive over
that which was once beloved,
a black slush forms along the curb,
used, tired, corrupted,
despised for its filth.

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.

Violence,
much like hopes and dreams,
the search for truth
and justice,
is not pursued solely by the mad.
Sometimes, the most mild-mannered person
walking down the sidewalk
can no longer absorb
the constant onslaught of attacks
doled out by life,
and suddenly,
the gun, the knife, the bomb,
they make a lot more sense.

Soft chairs watch over us.
They give us a place
to mourn, laugh, ****.
Chairs gently cradle us
without guile or judgement,
as the best of friends.
The crevices and folds
formed in the material of chairs
record and keep our secrets,
our histories.
Without soft chairs
we are nothing.

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

In the late 1990s on the South Side of Pittsburgh
there was a cafe I'd frequent
with large cozy chairs next to picture windows
that looked out onto East Carson Street,
the main drag in that part of town.
From those chairs, I'd read and write and watch
tattooed bikers, artists, skaters,
young ***** with their **** out,
and poor thugs in ***** clothes
posed as weathered statues against brick walls.
They all craved attention, respect,
a solid footing for their place in the world.

Today, I imagine most of those people are
dead or in prisons or barely making it
with several children and dead-end jobs.
That cafe, like so many storefronts,
fell victim to the polite ravages
of suburban malls and the Internet.
Those days are gone to never return.
Still, those people had my attention.
For what it's worth,
they will always have my respect.

The last generation
asked for success.
Our generation
asked to be left alone.
This generation
asks only to mitigate
the pain.

–Ron Gavalik

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

Near our house when I was a child,
the roots of a massive tree had lifted
the slab of a sidewalk several inches.
The kids in the neighborhood,
would ride our bikes fast over the slab
and catch air as fearless daredevils
on our way to the local park and ball field.
The other day in the city,
I tripped on a similarly lifted slab.
I almost went down like a sack of bricks,
which would have shattered the overpriced smartphone.
I cursed the city for not repairing an obvious
safety hazard.
It wasn't until I got home
that I realized I had sold out
the small joys and the imagination
of the world's imperfections
for false splendors
of modern life.

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

Once upon a time
I sinned with actions
Now, I sin with words
words that embody
regretful memories
the quiet desperation
of a tarnished soul

I really don't know
how many glasses
of whiskey I've drained
or how many hours
I've stared out windows
while waiting
for the world to awaken
from its drunken slumber
and begin to improve.

—Ron Gavalik

On the construction site,
I dropped a shoulder of 2X4s.
While retrieving the planks,
I cursed the sky and the job.
An older guy barked at me,
‘This ****’s better than jail.’
His wisdom taught me
there are two prisons:
one with and one without
visible steel bars.

—Ron Gavalik

Her kink was to watch
as I stroked one out in the car
in suburban parking lots.
One night, a guy in a ball cap
walked by. That poor man
was her unwitting accomplice
to ecstasy, but he just shook his head
as he strolled into the pharmacy.
I figured stroking was easier
at home on my own,
but that's the ****
we do to see
her smile.

-Ron Gavalik

There are people who love
what you do.
Others will always hate
what you do.
The majority have no idea.
Those are the souls
I observe on sidewalks
and in restaurants.
They are confused, angry, lost.
They stumble beautifully
through the fire.

-Ron Gavalik

There are people of substance
all around us
who explore their worlds.
These people read books,
help their neighbors,
and eat delicious food with family.
These people laugh hard from the gut.
They pray and weep
over lost friends and lost causes.

Surrounded by so many unfortunate souls
who live in perpetual dumpster fires,
the occasional conversation
with someone who truly lives
is a rare gift of life.

On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.

Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.

Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
slowly
when we least expect
our demise.

On the city bridge sidewalk
one summer night,
I contemplated
the second half of my life
among the lights
reflected upon the river.

I came to the realization
that no one will remember me.
My readers will soon forget,
as will my family.
That's why I need you,
to remember why I smile
and how I think.

Perhaps a young man with ambition
will inquire about me one day.
If that happens, pour him a drink.
Tell him I loved the sentiment
only the written word can deliver,
but I never loved words as much
as I loved you.

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

In our youths
Sundays were dreaded
We mourned the death
of weekends
Now, on Sundays
we reflect, quiet
on the continual
struggle

I love you.
Yes, that’s true.
I don’t even know you,
but I know you embody unique
stories of humor and sadness.
There’s so much hatred
all around us. That loathing
has taught me a valuable lesson.
I love you. I always have,
and I always will.

-Ron Gavalik

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

A lot of **** goes down on sidewalks.
The most desperate souls
sell their bodies and their spirits
for a little bread that only leads
to temporary solutions, escapes
from everlasting problems.
They seek what they will never find,
peace within the landscape,
among the masses who profit
from their predictable failures
and untimely deaths.

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

–Ron Gavalik

That girl
She was the one
who made me laugh
I really dug her
until she stopped loving me
Then I fell in love
with her

Sins are often forgotten.
Brain molecules are overwritten,
cell pathways erased,
as good conquers evil.
The righteous actions that ignite enlightenment
and solace for the sins we can't remember
are also eventually forgotten,
because evil also devours virtue
in what priests and monks refer to
as an ancient and everlasting battle.

Some people live out their lives in solitude.
We see them in quiet jobs,
alone in libraries and coffee shops.
They patiently wait out the battle
for the day when the struggle ends
and they finally know tranquility

Others choose action,
to play their roles as instruments, weapons,
sometimes for the forces of good
and sometimes for the forces of evil.
I’ve chosen to add my flavor of mayhem to the world,
inspired in forgotten nightmares
and during quiet car rides home
after the job has drained the last drops
of energy and self-respect.

Without the battle
humanity certainly would be boring.
Unfortunately for all of us
nothing is quite so dull
as serenity.

Watching the planet thrash
in tortured pain
is akin to watching on helpless
as a friend loses weight,
their energy, their hair
while battling an aggressive cancer.
The cancer of this small blue world
is the most gluttonous enemy.
Blinded by its miserable conquest
to consume and exploit
everything in its path,
the cancer does not stop
until it murders its host
and destroys its only means
for survival.

The value of food
is completely unknown
until the hunger sets in.
I can say the same
for love.

–Ron Gavalik

About three weeks into one of the many jobs
the boss, some short, white woman,
stormed up to me like she meant business.
"You don't act professional!"
she screamed in an emotional rant.
"You don't dress professional.
Your humor isn't professional either."
I stared at her in silence,
occasionally feeling my eyelids blink.
When she finished, I asked a question,
"Can you define the word 'professional?'"
She stormed away with the ferocity
in which she arrived.
I was back on the job boards that night.

The writer’s job
is to build the words,
not perform for applause
or join cheap cliques.
The printed word, baby,
that’s the nervous anticipation
for the 300 pound *****
who ***** the best ****.
Words are the hit of whiskey
after the sun drops
below the buildings.

-Ron Gavalik

There is so much beauty in this world,
and it exists all around us.
The old tree along the road,
its imperfect trunk has endured many winters.
The curvaceous young woman on the sidewalk,
she swings her hips as a gift
to all who take notice.
The priest with a hand pressed against the wall,
he prays for us all.
There is so much beauty in this world,
one really must work hard
to avoid it.

Murderers and thieves
lurk around every corner.
The honest ones use weapons
to get what they want.
The others allow selfishness
to slowly manipulate weak men
into the madness of poverty.
All remaining strength
sapped away, the defeated
pray for death.

-Ron Gavalik

I sat on the porch
in my underwear
around the time the neighbors
drove home from their jobs.
I smoked an acid 60 gauge
and sipped bourbon
from the bottle. I waited
for something worthy
of my pen to happen.
It never did.

-Ron Gavalik

A little boy at a local park
tried over and over again to scale
a child-sized rock climbing wall.
Over and over again he'd lose his grip
and fall into the grass
while his father watched on.

A random woman said to the father,
"Why don't you help him?"
"He's not making a sandwich,"
the man replied
without removing his eyes from the boy.
The woman pursed her lips
and walked away.

After what seemed to be about 97 attempts,
that little boy, his clothes and hair riddled with dirt,
finally scaled the wall.
Atop the playground equipment,
he raised his hands in triumph.
The look of delight and achievement
that formed on the boy’s face
was the reminder that
all things are possible.

Life for a 22 year old man
takes on new meaning when he
bolts out of the housing projects
in the middle of the night
while pulling up his pants
and buckling his belt.
To this day, I'm still not sure
which part was more thrilling,
the hook up with a **** stranger
or the three bad *****
that screamed "Get him!"
as they chased me to the beater car
that I prayed would start.

When we hit the whiskey,
we felt very good
for too short of a time.
The cowards and the ******
didn't disappear into the night.
At least their filthy claws
couldn't get a grip
on our throats.

-Ron Gavalik

Women of honor,
of heartfelt determination,
love with streaming tears.
They fight and they bleed
with passion
for their children,
their men, their communities.

Women of honor
laugh in drunken splendor
so hard and so often
during the good times
that for a brief moment,
the men forget there are bad times.

These beautiful creatures,
these women of majesty,
they deserve the best poetry
injected into their souls.

Serious men of responsibility
understand the desperation
to stay one step ahead of the game.
While boys in skinny jeans
and pink t-shirts
flutter the hearts of young women,
men take on the grueling labor
no one else will do,
to provide, to survive.
At the end of the day,
serious men sit quiet with a drink,
they reflect on their sins
and they toast their sacrifices.

Today depression visited
a quiet despair one feels
from grave injustice

Driving home
the world fell silent
On one street corner
stood a man of color
in ***** work pants
He frowned behind a gray beard
his eyes distant

He and I shared a truth
that while the poor wept
those who represent hatred
celebrated
again