He brought
The beloved
golden ring
down to
the pawnshop.

Hey you
You on the corner of space and slow time,
With the Wednesday smile that looks like you stole it from a prankster
Are you for real?
Or are you that sidesteppin passerby
Who took two steps off the sidewalk and one into me
Took a knife to the inside of my skull
Wrote down a life I forgot wasn’t mine
Cause sometimes I’ll admit I can’t tell the difference
I’ve been throwin baseballs of the back porch of my soul
Since the day the monster under my bed grew teeth
Hoping for someone to catch up catch them and catch me too
I’ve been running since the day I met God on the banks of a backwards river
Spinning this world like a record played one too many times
Sk-sk-skipping across all the riffs we used to glide over like it wasn’t a sin
He and his pals foolin us for the fun of it
Burnin a driftwood fire just to watch the colors change
I traded in my bibles for a pawn shop prayer
Cause everyone knows that bookstores are just pawn shops
For ideas that people were too drowned to keep on drinking
To keep on keeping


Hey you
Imagine we became all the words we breathed
Out of fairytale pages turned cigarette papers
the night you became a constellation
Us, riding a magic carpet woven from strings
Stolen from Fate when she wasn’t looking
I’d never been one for shoplifting
But that night we made off like barefoot bandits riding on a broken hymn
With nothing but chains of laughter round our ankles
I, the night dancer and you, the day singer
And we two seeing both sides of the moon
Sing me the song that day sung the first time she realized
That the night was more than a coat her dad told her to wear
Because it was raining
The universe ringing with the words of convenience store philosophers
Things people are too scared to write anywhere but on the walls
Of public bathroom stalls so far from the city that
Blackberry picking still involves thorns
I wished I was an ant so that I could carry
Things that were bigger than me without breaking
So that my biggest worry would be microscope lightning
It wouldn’t matter if you only wore your turban on nights so cloudy you thought God couldn’t see you
Cause when’s the last time somebody judged an ant on their headwear?


Hey you
Sometimes when I’m with you I mistake myself for a queen
And right now I’m ruling these words shamelessly
My subjects whose only job is to grow fields of sunflowers in December just for you
Let it sink in
Let it be known that my physical transition fails to interrupt my meditation
That I’ve never known a dream that did anything but embroider the ether
The air between us quit smelling like a cinderblock romance
Your hands a kinetic ignition to my saltwater synapses
That connect in double-time to the electric current runnin from your heart to mine
If you’re just some sidesteppin passerby that took two steps off the sidewalk and one into me
It’s too late cause I’m dreaming of you like pumpkins in spring
I already burned down my fortress of forget-me-nots
When I tried to write your name with a side-split matchstick
I can still see you amidst a mountain of ceiling tiles and plywood floors
Closed doors that I knocked down because they wouldn’t open
You are a brick
I have no shovel
I have hands
Will you take them?

I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark. Bluegreen glow of dashboard gauges, the faint scent of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Insects slapping the windshield like rain. How many miles does it take to turn yourself around, to rise up from ashes? Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.

II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor. The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence inscribed on my back also confirms this.

III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair, fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears, flirting behind tent ***** with the cute contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.

IV
I derailed in a dive bar.

V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights, where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic signals kept perfect time.
I picked through trash bins. I paid for love with drugstore wine.

VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road. The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.

VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew back the curtains and lost myself in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps, the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes. I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.

VIII
The moon over my shoulder tightened into focus like a prison spotlight. One night the barking dogs undid me. Goodnight, children. Goodbye, my love. I capitulated to the candor of a naked mattress. I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.

IV
I coveted the house keys of strangers.

X
I opened and closed many doors. I sang into the mouths of storm drains. I stepped out of many rooms only to find myself in the room I had just left. Despite all my leaving, I remained.

I'm taking my life. to the pawnshop on a dusty summer-fall morning
     Because at this point I'm not sure what to use it for anymore
               And they'll give me cash for trash
   Like a mountain of crushed cans in exchange for a dream money can buy in a clear plastic baggie

Where are you?

Do you hear me?
Do you see me?
Do you remember me?

I have always been here...

Tell me you remember me...

Tell me...

What did you used to tell me...

Lean on me, you tell me.
But when I try, I fall.
There is more often empty space
Than a warm embrace
To catch me.

Shivering in the cold of denial,
Where I can see neither my breath
Nor any warm, outstretched hand
To help guide me,
Rubbing bruised limbs from
Falling to the ground again
And again
(Lean on me, you tell me),
And blindly stitching at a wounded heart,
I get to my feet again and again,
And I fight.

I fight to feel that I still matter,
That I mean something to you.
Anything at all....

I fight to believe that I am still beautiful to you,
That I still bring light and color to your world,
That I am still the one who has your heart.

For in these days, I only feel that I hinder you.
That I, in needing you at all,
Even for the slightest thing,
Only slow your progress in your
Grandiose plan for your life.
A life you once said you wanted me
To be a part of.

As I hurt, I remain silent,
Not wanting to distract you.

You must understand, I'm not trying to ask for much...

Only that, in my moments of pain,
Where life is not so kind,
And people are not so gentle,
And my mind, body, spirit, and heart are not so strong,
That I might find warm solace in your arms,
That once so readily held me,
Protected me,
Shielded me from all that hurt me.
I only want that small comfort
Of running to you
And letting the tears
Or the words fall,
And having your gentle voice,
And loving smile,
And protective stance
Greet me,
Telling me it's all right to hurt,
And it's all right to need you.
That there is no shame or guilt
In these things.

Things that I dare not ask of you now.

I bear such guilt,
And I bear such shame,
For asking this of you.

Do you know how it hurts...
To find empty space again and again,
To feel like I am of no worth,
Despite how I try,
How I try so hard
To be perfect for you
And make you happy,
Always make you happy before myself.

I have always been there for you,
Never once turned you away.
I wouldn't dare.
My love for you forbids it.
I promised that no battle you fought
Should ever be fought alone,
Because I would be your fellow soldier.
I promised no celebration
Should be celebrated alone,
Because I would cheer with you.
I promised that no storm
Should ever pass where you did not have shelter,
Because I would always be your rock,
Your lighthouse,
The warm, safe place you would always have to go to.
I have never left,
And will never leave you
To face life,
The heartless *******,
On your own.


But in my darkest hours
And at times, my brightest dawns,
In my moments of despicable self-acceptance
That I need a hand to hold,
That I cannot take it on my own,
You are nowhere to be found.

Well... I suppose that's a lie.

I know exactly where to find you,
But I cannot go there.

I cannot interrupt you,
Keep you from what you are doing,
Because in those hours,
And among those people,
You have far greater things to concern yourself with
Than I.

Than what I might be thinking,
Feeling,
Fighting,
Celebrating,
Giving,
Taking,
Believing,
Denying,
Remem­bering.

Always remembering.

Remembering a time
When love held a far greater place
In your heart
Than work,
Than pride,
Than cold indifference,
All of which seem
Quite comfortable there.

They say that money is no object,
But she is the apple of your eye.

And I cannot help but envy her, for I once was in her place.

I had always been what you desired,
Now a pawnshop token you could take or leave,
Or so it feels.

I wish I could satisfy you the way she does.
That seductress,
Always luring in on a silver line
Those who believe she is the key
To happiness.

I wish I could have her wile,
Her charm,
Her tricks and beguiling ways
That have so captured you,
The way I,
And my simple acts of love,
Though I could not do much,
Once did.

I will never compare to her,
Never measure up to the
Beauty she beholds,
At least in your eyes.

I am a rather simple creature,
I suppose.

I have never had so much to offer
But my heart in whole,
And the promise of a lifetime
That I would never leave.

Maybe money truly does make the world go 'round.

But I never thought she could replace me.

Well played.

The door opened, he entered
There was a whoosh of air
The Bluesman looked bedraggled
And he grabbed himself a chair

Cy, came out, he heard the bell
Saw the Bluesman, gave a smile
He said "I see the storm is worse"
"It's gonna keep up for a while"

The Bluesman looked around the store
Saw a guitar on the wall
"She's an old one hanging over there"
He called to Cy, now down the hall

He grabbed it, rubbed the neck some
He said "she's got a lot to say"
He went back to the wooden chair
And the Bluesman, he did play

"There's lots of music in this girl"
"So many songs not sung"
He looked back at the hook behind
Where this old guitar had hung

He sang songs about Jesus
about freedom, and the moon
Amazingly for the guitars age
It wasn't out of tune

Cy went to the pawn stores  back
returning with a flask
He'd brought the Bluesman medicin
The Bluesman continued with his task

"This old girls a treasure trove"
"She's just so full of words"
"Songs kept hidden for so long"
"Songs just waiting to be heard"

He played some more, the storm let up
He thanked Cy, took his leave
"An old guitar needs to be played"
"It's lost songs to be grieved"

"You know that you can play her"
"Whenever you come by"
The Bluesman turned and smiled
He held the flask given by Cy

"That old guitar is special"
"She's an old soul, just like me"
"I thank you for the offer"
"Time will tell, we'll see"

The Bluesman left the pawnshop
It was if he wasn't there
He went out back behind Gianni's
And sang his music to the air

I Wrote her a love letter but she dropped it.
No money for the metro so we hopped it.
No money for the petro so I hocked a loogie
Then pawnshop hocked it:
Spitting that sick **** for profit.
We sat prostrate in front of our profit, then,
With her wet wig at the end of my mop-stick.
Check her prospects, then, blurry her optics.
We fly out in a flurry of topics.
I'm the nit-wit in her twit-pics:
The photo-bomber.
But she stopped its clock-ticks when she cropped it.
I should have told her,
I'm so fly she would die in my ****-pit.
And the Black Box is,
The love letter in her back pocket but she dropped it.

there is.
a ladybug on the ceiling.
there is nothing more.
maybe a lady on the negatives
on a 35mm in
a pawnshop.
but there is
a  ladybug on the ceiling.
they are the same

Pound shop,
pawnshop,
amusement arcade.
Spending the pittance of a life that they’ve made
at the job centre,
having it large,
scratting up tab ends,
before making a charge
to the Wetherspoon’s
for the rest of the night,
works even better if they get in a fight.
With their dog on a string,
hat’s probably nicked,
outside the bus station, begging on sticks,
like the world’s cheapest tricks.
Used to be good for a night on the town,
now the streets are starting to
drown
in dross and
distress,
but if you look at their frown, they
couldn’t care less
about your time.
Time to make tracks and drive,
its ‘kicking out’ soon and they’ll
eat you alive.