like a small
Now you wonder
but got dragged
but end up
he passed you
in the meadow
he had been
it all -
to the freedom
which made him
of feeling -
- emotionally -
in a hole
Lost in a
Where the one
source of light
is the one thing
his body -
His only option
For there was
in the sky
"I'm too young
the flames -
haze - black
"This 's what
soon 's he
He was then
The way I see him treat her,
As they're growing old.
It sickens me, he's changed you see,
He's growing rather cold.
They never used to bicker,
But now he's always rude.
She breaks down when he doesn't look,
Because he doesn't think it's true.
His memory is clearly fading,
I'm scared for both of them.
For if it kicks in, he loses it all,
But she'll lose more than him.
This is a story, I've seen a lot.
I've watched it happen live.
And when I say he's growing old,
It makes me wanna cry.
If parking lots aren't art, they are at least a gallery,
cars as the masterpieces which we gawk at, pretending
to be smart -- "ah, a famous Lamborghini piece."
And if that still isn't art, then call it something else -- a form of beauty beyond our comprehension, made by no one and everyone in this town.
Those construction workers who made this are ghostly sculptors of asphalt.
The yellow lines on the road are delicate brushstrokes, laid down by the most careful of craftsmen.
One day this parking lot will turn to dust,
and that is where the beauty comes from.
The soda can rumbles in the bowels,
tumbling into the gaping mouth
into which I enter a hand
to protrude my sugar rush.
sssni-kah, then the slurp of an obnoxiously pleasing sip.
I let the carbonation tickle my tongue,
reveling in the effervescent sensation.
The smell of old tires,
malodorous oil and gasoline,
and stale cigarettes fill the air.
My vexatious sips go unperturbing the dense atmosphere
that thickens outside the small air-conditioned office
and into the gas station,
where the mutters and sputters of drills,
the squeaking and squawking of rotors and axles,
the interjections of swears and grunts
fill the air.
I peek through the dirty smudgy glass window in the door
to see grimy overalled ants meandering
under the body of our red mini-van
hiked up into the air like a figure skater,
suspended by the rusty clawed accompanist,
not a tremor of strain, unflinching,
letting the greasy men crawl underneath, hiking up her skirt
to examine her anatomy.
I walk outside and sit on a dusty tire stacked with others
on the side of the building--
some growing forlorn in tall grass
weaving in and out of the aperturous rim,
the fingers latching onto fissures and pulling it down
into the hungry earth.
Another slurp and I set the can down
to step onto my skateboard--
rolling across the gritty pavement,
snapping ollies and pop-shuv-its
to add my timbre to the cacophony
leaping out of the open garage doors.
I look over to the barbershop adjacent to the station--
The off-white single room squat allowing the cylindrical swirl
perpetually pirouetting atop the door-frame
to dazzle in a placid manner.
It is there I get my close trims
and pull a lollipop from the cavernous bowl
sitting atop the counter.
The barber, working silently behind his dull gray mustache
and dull gray eyes.
Outside the barbershop to the left,
Leicester Highway ambles onward,
diverging at a fork just ahead of the lot,
and the road adjacent that winds down my neighborhood,
I've never embarked down either divergent,
and I wonder which one is the less traveled.
(Frost, guide me.)
I go to the mailbox teetering on the edge of the highway
and hastily grab our mail,
the wind slapping at my ass as the cars whisk by
in their infinitesimal haste.
I feel like time slows once you step onto Juno Drive.
I turn around and saunter back to the station to see Billy,
my Working-Class Hero,
who I mostly see strolling up to the driver's side window
of our dull red mini-van
to loosely rest his arms crossed atop the window frame,
resting his sweaty forehead on his sticky hairy forearms.
his blackened hands with his greasy smile
behind a scruffy scattered beard caked with dirt and grime,
atop a dark red leather face--
but eyes bright and merry.
His laugh, a phlegmy two-pack-a-day sputter
hacking and pummeling through the van,
all the way to me in the backseat peeking around mom's shoulders
to catch a look at this superhero anomaly.
And his southern drawl wrenching out of lungs
caked in tar and exhaust fumes,
that torpid slur that executes like the garbled hum
of an Oldsmobile engine chugging restlessly--
His laugh, an engine that won't turn over, sputtering to life
but falling right back down into the dirt,
lying on the oil-stained cold concrete floors dirty boots slipping over
and sticking too like wads of gum.
The charismatic mechanic who knew the answer to all things,
always ready to flash me that crooked greasy smile
stretching across his ruddy leather face.
I step back onto my skateboard, with soda in hand,
mail in the other,
and silently say goodbye to my Greasy Eden
before making my way down Juno Drive
towards the first house on the left,
following the road as it snakes past the trees,
alongside the creek, around the bend,
and out of sight.
There's a lot
You & me
Though we're separate now
On different lands
But we'll walk along
There's a lot
You & me
Though we're distant now
We yearn to meet
But we'll meet one day
There's a lot
You & Me
Water is our life,
Which will keep you alive.
Earth gives us coal and oil,
Don't use it as a mosquito coil.
Leave some some capacity,
As gas is our basic necessity.
Don't see our facility,
Believe in unity.
There was not a lot to worry about so
nothing could be held up without it being sold
Faberge' brushed shoulders with art deco pieces
money paid guaranteed immediate releases
The reps had phones to their ears getting the nod
there was a clown's outfit which was rather odd
because the clown was still inside - did the body come too?
or was it to be stripped naked like me and you?
We have lost everything - it's all in the room
there was a smile from a man leaning on a broom
I want my sofa back, my favourite armchair
the bed we made love in where you lay bare
Even your smile was for sale, admired from afar
golf clubs, personal effects, my teeth in a jar
We paint your breeding world as queer
and every man a closet queen.
Your days like Noah’s now appear…
our King arrives to crown the scene.
Oh Father of progressive souls
whose neo-pagan mercy reigns,
bring union to fragmented wholes
as lovers rattle rainbow-chains.
We’re clubbing with the scribes of sex
(our fairy-dusted lying press)
who pay out cash for background checks
while prying more and praying less.
The starry heavens twinkle gay
and rainbows end in gold, you know).
To see it any other way
would harsh our high and end the show…
Your family paradigm descends
upon the Roman road to hell
where reproductive reason ends
in demographic show-and-tell.
God’s wisdom pleads in vain. What’s life
when mobs are primed for anarchy –
assaulting yet again Lot’s wife
in Sodom’s dead democracy.