In those apricot-tinged nirvana days,
cigar smoke filled the stuffy restaurant in which we ate.
At the table across from us sat a couple in their fourties,
Him, a toupee-wearing, finger-clicking car salesman,
and Her, the blonde in a tight dress,
glossy white mink and even glossier white stilettos.

She talked enthusiastically about the new eastern religions,
Groups that offered "clarity" and "spiritual guidance" to the dissatisfied Miami girls such as herself.

She said that she wanted a new way of life.
(Secretly, she wanted the young guru who'd promised it to her.)
Toupee protested:
"But honey, we ain't no slaves to the machine!"
The gold Casio watch on his wrist and the tacky pearls she sported said otherwise.

Woman at diner who knew Fugazi,
I wear all these pins
on my denim jacket
waiting for someone like you
because a t-shirt isn’t
loud enough.

Woman who knew Fugazi,
waitress at diner,
had “seen them twenty times,”
without exaggeration—

with cracking olive skin
and graying curly black
hair to her shoulders,

the light refracting off my pin
my friend bought at a record store
in Philly      reflecting her the image
of a slender, voluptuous youth
donned in fake leather
worn Levis and beat Vans

shaking her mop of jet-black curly hair
in a throng of like-minded dressed
individuals in a dingy club
          angsty Washingtonians
fleeing the Reagan Youth

mad at Capitalism
mad at Middle Class,
mad at Excess, Abuse, Malaise—
driven by the furious punk rhythms
of sweat-drenched Fugazi.

Woman who knew Fugazi,
friends with Ian MacKaye,
hadn’t seen him in years—

waitress at restaurant
where the scrambled eggs are dry
and the coffee is stale.

Waitress at diner,
Mother now,
wife, adult,

                 [[punk]]
at heart.

Help me eat

this grain of life

my back aches, terribly

from this immortal strife



sit with me

on this legless chair

let us relate

let us share

we shall live

in the same air

let us combine

our melting despair



A life that tastes good

but doesn't satisfy hunger



- Kaya

Tempted
I was tempted to
Walk away, to
Sit in this empty
Car, with rain on the windows
Forever.

But then the shocking
Confession was made for me
That I still sleep with a
Naked teddy bear and these
Archaic sheets of
Translucent obsessions.

I am not myself
Or a number on a scale
Or the lonely midnights
Drinking milkshakes in empty
Diners, alone but for
Those neon lights.

Those lonely midnights
That do not yet exist
And the vacant burns
Of vanity
Inscribed upon my
Favorite caveman.

Free Will is a ***** and a half.

But ***** ain't free, he costs and costs, and jaws you, gnaws you, spits out your bones, retargets, redodges, zooms in, looms thin, steals a hat from a child outside a movie theater and vanishes around the corner, through the alley, under the chainlink where the filthy mutt from the movie dug his way to freedom Steve McQueen style.

But the dog's name is not *****, and she would prefer you call her a ***** then whistle.  It doesn't make any difference to her what you call her, but she knows whistling your sexuality at strangers in the street is bad for your mental health, worse for your dignity.

She will stare you down, swipe left, steal your money from the begger, and brag She left you dead in the street next to the twin corpse of the ice cream man that won't stop ringing his bell.

If you are too lazy to make coffee in the morning the nightmares will follow you all day, headache throbbing like a hammer on memories like nails.

On the morning of the day little baby Jesus decided to ease up on the whipping you were at the Portuguese diner out by the highway on the toilet listening to the rain drops gather rhythm on the rooftop, thinking about the idea of mathematical randomness, wondering if perfect beats like Ringo Star or clocks exist in "nature." I mean not man made.  You know what I mean.

Inventing Bukowski is also fun.  He loved to write about his *****: "The best of the beer *****/ hot, wet, steaming, and glorious ..."  What a role model.

The thing with J. C.  is he is just one of three people, none of whom yet exist.

Humanity is still basically crawling around in the forest waiting for the Aliens take the time to drop by and share a few tips.  Maybe more than a few.

i'm the man drinking coffee alone at the diner who kindly asks you for the time. you reply but you don't even look at me in my eyes.
i'm the lone deer you hit while driving at 3am. you don't even stop the car. you even forgot about it the next day.
i'm the homeless cat you stopped feeding at night. i still meow at your doorstep. you just ignore it.

I noticed you afar in your tainted uniform and deeply ironed apron.
When you walked with swagger and a little confidence, your dark hair stayed in place and reflected from your sunrise brown eyes.
Straight shoulders that arched your back and showed the bottom of your rose tattoo on your right bicep.
You approached me with that cocky charming waiter boy attitude,
sparkling white teeth and cunning smile.
Definitely a University boy
Can't be no older than 22
I slipped in a couple questions along with my order.
Are you local?
college boy?
I'm not an expert at flirting and you can probably tell that I haven't before.
You went easy on me.
"I board at the University ten blocks from here, but live three blocks from the diner. I crash at my mom's occasionally, but I like college."
You made it look like you were doing work by filling up sugar canisters.
I was enjoying the coffee too much.

It was 2:45.
You got off at 3.
I grabbed a pen and wrinkled napkin on the corner of the table.
I dotted my "I"s with stars and wrote 10 digits meticulously with a steady right hand.
You handed me the check and walked cooly back to the cash register.
Time was ticking, but I didn't want to be desperate.
I flicked my long straight black hair to my shoulder so it could bring out my eyeliner.
I walked to the register and nochalantly gave you the check.
I smiled and gave you the tip.
You threw the tip aside as the register flung open and held the written napkin in the light.
I walked out in confidence and exactly at 3:00.

Here in Holden I forget all the memories acquired in sun
They all tumble and I could stop it if I wanted to stop
Pouring ***** in my head as a song before bed
Two-****** whiskey drinker caught in the present,
Displaced in time. And another and another til
she upgrades to doubles at no extra charge cause
she loves how my face 'round means she's safe at least
til I leave and she's sweet and pays me in drinks I
don't need as bad as money and a stable place.
Here in Holden B-Block I play games with my memories
I tumble hard and I could stop it if I wanted to stop
Too fun to open a door and fall through the floor
to the blackness of past as you stand from your stool
to play pool in the back as you can't keep your cool
so you retreat. Always retreat.
Here in Holden, underground, I **** on the memories
I made under sun now
bathed only in krypton light
scaring cats from the cans
behind the brush as I
rush to get it all out.
Spit it all.

See, it's like this. What I feel is dependent on what's real.
And I do to the people and things around me what it
takes to protect them and keep them intact. Most of
the time. Though in fact, doing to the tune of truth
isn't always the best act. You can't withhold what
others share, create or damage. You can withhold
what you share with others. And from you, my brother,
I do believe after reflecting til the present time, I
and you would have been fine if I had actually
stopped and thought about what actually was best.
But instead I stepped out of bounds you'd set
that I'd confirmed and said yes, to put my own
needs first in the name love -- something or other --
and not stop till I had your ex. You even confronted me
and said it wasn't a trip you could handle emotionally.
**** me. It was no accident, it remains that I could have
prevented an incident, now I'm ashamed of myself
for disrespecting another who discovered me young
and kept close, even when I couldn't keep my nose clean.
Maybe I can't, still. I'm sitting sipping at four hour old
coffee in a diner alone to still the upset. But I can't do.
I can't hold it in any longer. I've been a bad person
paying a part of the toll in deep regret. I can't forget
that I owe you more than I could ever say. That's
why I'm writing you on a legal tablet at midnight,
a dozen or more yellow pages with an empty pen
scratching holes bathed in the laserlight. I guess
I'm in the past again, writing you, groping for
parts I know must still be there to fill the holes
in my heart as hard as it is to admit cause I know
there's no redemption.

He said I got all my life ahead of me
to stop kicking my teeth in when
it's not others delivering kicks
covering me in spit in passing
Life is the essence of difficult
leaving you being and breathing
and thinking when all you want
is the option to disappear but
it's the fear, so clear, when you're
alone or homeless or in a pit
that ain't six feet that it easily seems
descending, that is the definite call
to action, man, I can't say the words
to save you, you're in your own hands
but if you're listening stop pretending
that you can't hear the reverberation
on your insides. Maybe you'll die
young and me too, but not with the
mind's eye closed that's why I plea
to keep you running on empty when
you're friendless, when you're so far
from blessed, you're cursed, and wishing
for an enemy. Hate me now for the truth,
I don't hate you. Stare down at the ground
at your shoes if it pays, I can't help but
notice you notice you're built for more,
and you're due.

And then he comes in. Like a whirlwind.
Flipping his arms and crossing them,
can't tell if he's plotting or genuine in
his vehemence. Virulent eyes compliment
perfectly venomous sentences or just
as quick turn icy blue if it's better to give
me the shoulder. He can't believe to this
day I'd betray what was left of his confidence
in me and I ain't going to lie I've been a liar
caught in the web I thought I had protection
against. He saw me there by the sidewalk
then caught up in happenstance, cavorting
with an upsetting ghost supposed to be left
in the past, but he don't understand, I can
shut off the phone or ignore every message
received in belief and knowing I deserve
more than this woman ever gave, but I refuse
to be cruel with active intention to a life
I simply have no other choice but to rearrange.
He said, I hope you're not doing this for me
when I started to change, to climb higher
and rise up from the grave I'd been digging
out for myself with utter complacency,
shedding passivity for determination in exchange
and in the end it all seemed good till a misstep,
hell you invited me back into the bed where
you slept so we could be together and both sleep.
Call me naive. Dependent. **** it, I guess I was
but I now I understand being played by a hypocrite.
Nothing can be every way for you, so now
that I'm getting up on two feet you feel you
can't be a friend to me. Rather than take a breath
to exhale your bitterness you'd expel me with
superficial rage hiding indifference. Called naive.
Dependent. **** it, I guess I was but now
I understand what you said before, yes,
and I'll take a stand, I'm worth about as much
work as I'm putting in, to the mind I am, to
the body I hold, but it's old. I doubt you're
listening. History repeats. You build me
up. You destroy me. You fill my heart.
You silence beats. You power me.
You're wearing down my energy.
I'm off work. So I'm sitting down
under the open sign at Marian's
with a cigarette.