Laying back
I stare at the mustached men
Staring down at me
They all have white hair
And blue eyes
They float on by
With half smug grins
Holding back their pride
Of their mustaches
Some have big fat ones
Some have long wispy ones
Some are bristly
Some sway in the wind
Like an old sock on a telephone pole
Their stern gaze
Judge every face they see
Once in a while
Their faces swell
And get dark and puffy
Then the mustached men cry
And shower the landscape with tears
I wonder what they see
Looking down at us
That makes them so sad

All along the beach
Tiny holes litter the sand
And inside each hole along this
Tiny strip of sand and tide
Live the tiny people

They are a simple people
Who walk swinging their tiny arms
And sometimes hold their tiny hands
So they can swing together

They love to take short walks along their holes
And leave behind a short trail of tiny footprints
They collect and dry grass
To weave tiny little hats for their tiny little heads
And go out into the water

At night they lie out on the sand and gaze up at the stars
And think about how these tiny dots
Make them seem even tinier

Their lives can be tremendous
When their tiny fires die down
They reach out
And reassure their love

Sometimes the day turns dark
And tiny drops of water fall from the ashen clouds

But for tiny people these create big floods

The dead are buried in tiny graves
And the living make even tinier drops of water
As if in a fit of irony

The wind is known to sweep away the tiny people
Like the smoke cut out of their tiny pipes

They never like to venture far from their holes

After many seasons
The tides rise far up the beach
And the tiny people are swept away

All are left are the tiny holes littering the sand
Staring at the sun as it passes over into the seas to sleep
Waiting for more tiny people to call them home

I watched a girl knock over a drunken man’s glass
Off a fence post
The highball glass didn’t wobble off
There was no instance of dull fear at the
Inability of prevention
Simply it just was on the concrete
With its shards reflecting the headlights as they passed
The tattooed drunk did not get angry
As some men are disposed to become under a similar circumstance
He muttered in a dead pan voice
-*My long island

Walking down the sidewalk I noticed
No one smiled
No hellos
Travelers with a vow of tunnel vision
As if happiness must be a private institution
Trudging to the end of their lives
Staring as if the cement was
The most remarkable shade of gray
The saddest thing
When my eyes hit the oncoming man’s forehead
He lifted his chin
And lock pupils
I looked at my shoes

Make me ugly
Touch me and let the sores sprout
And the hair fall away
Turn the dull brown of my eyes to milk
Knock aside my straight white teeth
Let the children run from my smile
I want to shatter mirrors
I want to punish eyes
People will cover their mouths in fear
And I will be the person under the beds
Of disobedient children
I will be shunned and hated
People will whisper monster under their breath
Others will ignore me entirely
And all the while no one will ever know
What kind of person is behind this face

I feel sorry for the homeless man by the dumpster

He must get so cold during the winter

I feel sorry for the single mother with her two children

She must want the best for her kids but will never have the chance

I feel sorry for the starving child on the television

I wonder if he will understand why he has to be hungry

I feel sorry for the people who hurt others

Almost as badly as the people they mistreat

I feel sorry for those who live their lives only by God

Will they ever get the chance to live their own lives

I feel sorry for those chroniclers of the lives of celebrities

They would give their life to have that attention

I feel sorry for the narrow-minded bigot

Where will their place be when acceptance takes root

I feel sorry for the children pageant contestants

Mothers living through their child what they could never be

I feel sorry for those who judge others at first glance

Even though I do the same thing

I feel sorry for the suicidal

They can’t see what beauty is left in the world

I feel sorry for the unwanted old man

He never wanted to be a burden to his children

I feel sorry for the handicapped

Even if they don’t need our help

I feel sorry for the crying alcoholic

I hope they have good reasons

I feel sorry

But I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me

Bare feet slap down the pavement
In the distance a car alarm goes off
A cacophony of smells reminds me others live here too
Dinner cooking
Evergreen trees
Raw garbage
An old stray cries out
You can almost hear her ribs creaking
I should smell the tobacco of the cigarette between my pointer and middle fingers
But I’ve smoked so many I’ve forgotten what they smell like
The beer in my other hand tastes flat but that’s alright
Next door I can hear laughing
A deep laugh
The kind that melts through the ears and sticks to your ribs
A sudden breeze blows my hair out of my face
When it leaves each strand falls back on to my forehead
Like fingers drumming on a coffee table
I inhale as deep as I can
I open my eyes and all that beauty is broken