As the sun begins to retire for the day, we sit here in my black, 1965 Lincoln Continental convertible, gazing upon the glowing city skyline that is illuminated in orange and red, a perfect complement to the burning house at the bottom of the cliff.  

This shared moment couldn’t be any more perfect.

I look over at her.  

How did I get so lucky?

With her I don’t have to talk. I can simply enjoy her company, me eating a vanilla cone as she inhales a burger and fries.  

Food gone, she looks longingly at me, so I extend my right arm to share my ice cream.

She is so adorable. Her inherent beauty is magnified by her quirky imperfections, especially that slight under bite and scarred face, some scars more pink and fresh than others.  

The sun finally disappears, and we are cloaked by the black, star-filled sky.  I continue to marvel at the smoldering house, taking it in, processing it, and developing it as if I am a photographer in a dark room.  

Reaching for the ignition, I pause.  I lean back in my seat and close my eyes for a very brief moment.  All I see is the pathetic expression on his face, his struggle.  And those ***** cuss words he spat at me – if only I had had soap, but I didn’t.  I lean over to Casey and take off her collar, throwing the encasement of her old life out of the car and into the endless mystery that lies beneath us.

The blisters on my left forearm begin to sting and throb, the heat disrupting the stillness of this reality.  

I need a bag of ice and a bottle of whiskey.  

I can’t wait until we are settled into my apartment, enjoying that cheap air conditioning as we cuddle and watch re-runs of the Andy Griffith Show.

i prepared for the worst,
protected myself from the future storm
that no one else could see but me.
it never came,
and i sat in my shelter,
alone with my thoughts.
i wish i was a prizefighter of words,
wish i was able to express to you
how i truly feel,
but instead i spend my days
shadow boxing myself,
without you.
there’s a battle raging inside my mind,
a constant push and pull
between what’s real
and what i feel,
and i lost you,
but i don’t have anyone to blame
but myself.

He loved it when she slid up
to him, as sweet as a sprinkle doughnut -
but now, something has befallen her,
she's been burned or frozen, tastes more like
cinnamon raisin; but by virtue of his
firelit face and tall tales,
he still gets invited out.
_________

He creaks upstairs an hour late, we
are already tangled up on the
back porch, smoking, and the
liquor has made everything
an economy of scale.

He is a ray of sunshine. Tells us
all the old groaners. The big fish.
Ultimately says, "Happy birthday.
Never let your guard down."
and hobbles off, with barb-wire chafing
his heel, and the rheumatic suspicion
that "rest" and "wellness" are
the fables taught to us by
bogeymen, trying to convince us
there are no bogeymen.

I am a tender Twenty tonight.
I want to twirl my fists in Muhammad Ali speedbag-spirals,
saying, "I am the champion. Never undefended."
But I am too drunk, and maybe
too humiliated.

God! He floats like painkillers. He stings like loss.

There he is, the tall order, the iron giant:
a two-story brainfreeze milkshake.

I shudder, a pipsqueak of a prizefighter.
The bucktoothed squirt at the icecream booth,
too short to notice that there are only three flavours.

I'm an ex-prizefighter and my name is Glass Joe.
If you're wondering if I could win fights, the answer is no.
I got my *** kicked by a shrimp and his name is Little Mac.
I got knocked out in the first round when that boy attacked.
I'm called Glass Joe because my jaw is made of glass.
It was humiliating because anybody could kick my ***.
People laugh at my losses and it's something I resent.
I happen to be Glass Joe Biden and I'm the President.
I run America but I sure can't take a punch.
If you hit me in my stomach, I'll lose my lunch.
I lied to everybody when I said that I came from France.
I got *** whippings in the ring, I never stood a chance.
Even old women could knock me out and I'm not a fighter anymore.
If Americans learn that I lost ninety-nine fights, I won't win in 2024.

Abraham Horowitz thought he was dead. Maybe this was what death was like, desolate and bleak, no different than his last few years of sheer misery, humiliation and pain.  He already felt he was in Hell, for Buchenwald was a Hell on earth, but what was going on now?  Just where was he exactly? His glasses had been smashed by a **** guard months ago, and now he couldn't understand why he could not make out the hazy figures of the guards barking out orders and smashing the butts of their rifles into the heads and backs of tormented inmates.  All that seemed to exist were walking skeletons aimlessly drifting about in the blowing wind.

His situation was always dire, but today was an indescribably odd day.   It wasn't good or bad. Lately, little aroused Abraham to ponder upon as he had long ago begun to believe that he was an animal and not a man. After all, different walks of life were thrown away like subhuman trash—left for the flies to feast upon—and it had powerfully defined the ghastly surroundings of his disgraceful existence. People who once were somebody to someone had soon become nobody in the world.  The rotting corpses proved that out. Since he was deemed as a beast, Abraham no longer thought or reasoned like a human being. There was no longer any reason to think or to feel or to imagine anything that could inspire his will to thrive.

The inhumanity had taken its toll. Too weak to stand, he had been fading in and out of sleep and consciousness when much of the chaos of forced marches took place. The Nazis were desperately trying to avoid encountering the allied forces that opposed them. They weren't going to give up easily as they'd sooner shake their fists and make all the prisoners suffer to the bitter end. Many of prisoners were moved out as possible, but not all went willingly. The remaining prisoners—those who weren't half dead—now had their chance to resist.

Abraham's back was leaning against the splintered, wooden wall of one of the barracks. He had tried to prop himself up in an attempt to sit up and then stand up. He only succeeded in sitting up in an awkward slouch, much to the discomfort to his bony backside. The sun beat down on him, his only solace to warm up his frail, battered body, his only comfort in his state of wasting away to the shell of the man he once was. Soon the sweet sun was quenched as he was engulfed in the shadows of a soldier standing before him.  

There was nothing left in him, no more will to live. He was done. No more fear flooded his mind, only thoughts of nothingness that gave him an actual period of relief.  If he was still alive—he had thought—the best thing to happen would be that the soldier now in front of him end his miserable life with a bullet to his head. What once was deemed a horrendous fate now seemed like a welcome surrender

"Hey there... sprechen sie Englisch?", the man asked him. It was the worst German accent that he ever heard, but it might as well have been the voice of God.  

Did he speak English? Oh, yes, he did! "Ja…Englisch", he managed to utter, in sheer bewilderment. He struggled for words to say, but they could not leave his mouth.

The man crouched down and said, “It’s okay now. You can say whatever you want, buddy.”

Abraham still struggled to speak. "That is yes...I...I... do....I do...and Hebrew... and Yiddish... German and… a bit... Polish", he answered with a parched, throaty voice.  Abraham had enough strength left to place his quivering hand up to his eyes. He simply cried as the light went on in his mind. The rumors going around the camp were true! The Americans had come!

Tears are for little boys. The image of his father, scolding him for crying as a youth, dashed into mind. Abraham tried to contain himself. Weeping was one satisfaction that the inmates wanted never to give to the Nazis. Only the irrevocably broken ones begged for mercy, wailing uncontrollably as they were laughed at, mocked and scorned by their enemies.  Conditioned to show no emotional response was one up on the Germans, the only control and dignity that a man had left.  Self-restraint meant you were never owned by anyone.  

Soon a slightly cool cup of water was placed upon Abraham’s shaking lips. He slurped at it—getting more on the ground than in his mouth—like a man coming out of years in the desert. Oh, how precious was that water! He could have drunk it by the gallons, splashed in it, played in it—danced in it!  If he could only stand and be given the chance!

"Easy now, buddy”, the American advised. "My name's John, by the way". The young, freckled-face private smiled proudly, stating,”John Dunn from the good, ole USA—from Jersey...New Jersey, that is."

He was only the second soldier that Abraham ever met in this entire ordeal of brutal capture and madness of war that had a heart. The soldier was rare sight in that he showed him even an ounce of kindness. John Dunn reminded him so much of Otto Brumler that he began to weep, again. He didn't know he even had it in him, for he had stopped crying so long ago that it was as if he had forgotten how.  Lately, there just weren't any more feelings left—not even hate. Oh, how he used to hate! There were only numb movements of a dead man walking about. The tears felt cleansing upon his dry and ***** face.

Otto Brumler was a rare anomaly. He just didn’t seem to make sense in this sea of insanity. A **** guard, he liked to talk with some of the inmates, discreetly giving them gifts to pass around—some cigarettes, chocolates, cheese, bread and sausages. How peculiar to be coming from a German soldier!  Some of the inmates were suspicious that he was a spy that was out to trap them and feared him even more than the most loathing of the guards. Abraham was one of them who at first thought the man was purposely trying to get them in trouble.

Trouble abounded in the camps. If the men couldn't work hard enough, they were daily beaten and tortured, so badly beaten down that many could not get back up again. If it wasn't an act of harsh aggression, it was starvation and disease that got them. Herded up like animals, the filth from their ****** fluids and human waste was an ever noxious presence, their ragged clothes soiled in the foul mess. The stench that was once unbearable eventually became to define them as trash to be thrown away, and they had forgotten what a clean existence smelled like.  

Abraham would sometimes wake up in the morning and find the one next to him had not made it through the night. Sometimes, it was on both sides that dead bodies had sandwiched him in-between. If not those succumbing to the horrible conditions, the weaker ones were taken away while alive, never to be seen again. And some would give up the will to live by refusing to press on, passively taking a bullet or a fatal beating. Then there were those who would end their own lives as the only means of escape. It seemed one less triumph for the Nazis, to deny them the sick satisfaction of killing yet another, wretched soul. Yet the Nazis always won the victory of a victim’s life ending.  Regardless of how the death of any of the undesirables occurred in the camps, it fed their ideology of superiority just fine. Many of the prisoners lay awake at night wondering how this barbarism could flourish and go unnoticed.  When would it end? Had the whole world gone mad?  

"We survive and that’s how we win”, one of the Polish prisoners, Jan, encouraged some around him. "We make it to the end because they will be defeated. They cannot last forever. You mark my words!"

"And how do we do that?" “a doubtful Jewish teen, Eli, insisted. He once was so spirited, and he had great plans to travel the world one day. "I lost my whole family. I'm the only one left and it will just be a matter of time before they get me, too. We are all doomed!" His gaunt face and hallow eyes spoke for themselves.

Abraham needed to believe he'd have even a glimmer of hope to be free one day, or he'd have lost the battle by now. His sanity would not hold out. Many already had no hope and that was like a death in itself.  Most of the men knew that to hold on, they'd have to defy logic and hold out for hope. They'd pray with each other, regardless of being a Jew or Christian or even the agnostics, sometimes losing the meager hope that they were had. It grew as scarce as their rations of crusty bread. Nevertheless, they prayed.  

One time, Abraham was grabbed by a guard by the throat and hurled to the ground for being too slow. He had been dumping out human excrement from the campgrounds. The guard berated Abraham as he kicked him over and over again while the poor man curled up into a ball in helpless submission. Protecting his face and head, he soon found himself sheltering his groin, writhing in  pain in that sensitive area that had been attacked by a heel of a boot.

It was Otto Brumler who astounded him. Why wasn't he like the others? As a Jew, the disgust the Nazis had for Abraham was as obvious as the gloom hanging over the camp. Hatred defined Abraham’s world ever since ****** took power and convinced the people that they would be better off without his kind.  Otto was looked upon as being too soft on those he guarded, reprimanded for not being too tough and rough on the prison ****. He did not go above and beyond his duty, nor did he take pleasure in anyone's pain and suffering.

"My best friend was a Jew", he confessed to Abraham one night, sneaking him some salve for his cuts and abrasions from that last beating, providing him some meat to satisfy his longings to fill his stomach.  

Abraham actually showed a real emotion that was a rare sight these days, a slow expression of surprise. "So why are you here at the camp?" he asked him.

Otto puffed on his cigar and passed it to him. He laughed a little, replying, "I think ****** is a little man...but a big bully. I would have gladly be no part of this greedy thirst to devour other nations, but I was forced into it." He looked at Abraham and smiled a bit with sad eyes. It was quite the contradiction of mirth. Otto had a ruddy complexion and dark blonde hair. In his youthfulness, there still an air of innocence about him, a kindness that the ugliness of the war had not killed in him.

"I love my country", he admitted.  "I just hate what they are doing now and how blind we have become. It will be to our ruin."

Abraham admired his honesty. "I guess there are a few good men in this world", he admitted. "My father taught me that it isn't where you come from but who you are that counts."

"That is true, my friend." Otto patted him on the back and added, “My old friend, Avi, had saved my life."  He was speaking of his Jewish friend from childhood. "Many years ago, he rescued me from a lake in my hometown. We went there to cool off from the summer heat.  I couldn't really swim, but I became overconfident and dove in like I was the best swimmer in the world.  There, I found myself in water over my head and didn't end up so well.  I would have drowned without Avi rescuing me. Unlike me, he was fearless."

"So now you know we Jews aren't devils." Abraham remarked, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.  

"Of course not! Avi was like a prizefighter, a real proud kid. He never backed down from a fight, and there was always a challenge for him..He had to fight off the boys who picked on him for being different from most of us—for being a Jew. So he learned how to stand his ground. I was a fat boy, and Avi would defend me from the bullies who picked on me, too. He was a good friend to me. I know a a bully when I see one, Abraham” He pointed his finger all around, “Bullies everywhere, but they are not men…just weak, little boys who need someone to kick around to feel better”

Abraham knew he had a genuine friend in Otto. “What happened to your friend?”he asked about Avi.

Otto just shrugged his shoulders. “I hope he hasn't lost the fight. I wonder what has happened to him quite often...if he is alive now…if he has made it this far."  

It was nighttime, but it seemed even less secure to come together like this than if mingling in plain sight.  There was never a time where anyone could feel safe, not one minute. Abraham knew this encounter was risky, deadly for sure if caught. He talked about his lovely, young wife, Rivka, and how she felt she was not blessed with having a child. Now it seemed like it was a blessing not to rear up a child, not to have it cruelly ripped away from them and mourn the aching loss and its tragic demise. Rivka was already dead, herself,. Women and children were often the first to go. All Abraham had now was her memory, the image of her sweet face in his mind. Otto talked about his young sweetheart, Gretchen, and his dream of starting a life with her once the war was over. He still believed in a bright future.

That wish would never come true.  It wasn't long before Otto was found out about for his secret encounters with some of the prisoners and shot before a firing squad as a traitor. When Abraham found out, he wanted to weep over the loss but the tears wouldn't come. They couldn’t even come for his lovely Rivka. They only came now when Private John Dunn had given him water, mirroring the same kindness that Otto had once done, redeeming him from an animal to a man  once more.  

Abraham was eventually placed on a truck with other survivors and transported to more humane conditions. Allied soldiers were fully in charge the camp now, and there was no going back to that hellhole ever again. At last, he was truly a free man, though a heartbroken one who was not the same man as he arrived. He had not died—this was not just a dream—but he still was not convinced he would have the will to go on. The breeze on his face felt wonderful, the sun in his eyes, miraculous. That held some shred of promise for him. He passed by trees and mountainous views that he was never convinced he would ever see, again.  No more smell of death, but even the most fragrant flowers could not mask the memory of the horrible stench of his war-torn memories. Some things did just not die away that easily. Memories had a stink of their own that could not be masked by beauty. He had seen things that few could bear, much less go on to tell about it.  He'd never forget being penned up like pigs for the slaughter and made to have no hope. But by the front of the truck, there was Jan, the Pole who once said that the Nazis would be defeated and everyone could mark his words.  

Abraham looked at him until Jan's eyes met his and they both managed a smile. He had come too far to give up. He would not win the victory if he did not survive. He owed it to those who did not make it—to his people, to his fellow inmates, to Rivka, and even to Otto Brumler.  He had no clue, no answers of where to go or how to conduct himself in the world, again, but he would continue to hold onto hope that he would make it.

It suddenly dawned on him that his wife had a few cousins in Chicago that she grew up with. His mind was alerted with the remembrance of Rivka exchanging pictures, postcards and letters throughout the years, All he had of her was robbed from him in the war—everything. To lay eyes on her image—once again—and the possibility of maybe holding her actual words in his hands began to overwhelm him. His imagination could barely contain the thoughts, and he began to weep yet again. As once, crying was weakness to a man, the tears just now meant he was alive. To be counted among the living—to belong somewhere—it was the closest thing to pure joy. Thoughts of America started a small spark within—just enough to start a little fire in his soul—to lead him on to a path with a hopeful purpose. There was no turning back now.

You think you have to carry the past
like a sack of rocks weighing on your spine.
I’m here to tell you that you don’t.
Let me take them out,
one by one,
let them fall to the ground,
one by one,
and help you let
it
go.
And when you’re ready,
I’ll skip them across lakes and ponds with you
and watch them sink to the bottom,
where they belong.

You think you have to bruise yourself with hatred and sorrow
like a champion prizefighter.
I’m here to tell you that you don’t.
Put down your fists
and let the adrenaline
dissipate in your bloodstream.
Take a deep breath in, and let
it
out.
Learn to love yourself.
There’s no need to fight that any longer.

You think you have to always stand tall
like an impenetrable fortress.
I’m here to tell you that you don’t.
My darling, it is okay to let
me
in.
And it is okay to crumble a little bit.
Let ivy grow up your sides, if only
to remind you that life
is still possible within your hands.
And when you finally fall, I hope you realize
that you never were just a stronghold.
You are the sky,
the unreachable horizon,
and every beautiful thing in between.

Your life may be full of sparkles and ove-lay but the rest of us sometimes struggle under storm clouds.

Anna (one of my roommates) broke up with her BF of a year. It seemed to happen in agonizing, slow motion. Anna wavered, for almost a week, like a feather caught in contradictory gusts, but finally, she gave him the broom.

Jump ahead four days to Saturday. New Haven was a drizzle-fest of cold rain and my suitemates all stayed in. I had hospital volunteer hours that morning (6am-10am) and then managed to whip through my chemistry homework (3 classes) in 3 quick hours.

When everyone was free, we ordered pizzas and wings. We have to meet deliveries at the front gate, and I was barely able to carry it all. “Pizza!” I announced, as I entered the suite, where I was immediately mobbed.

“Le’ me get to the table!” I whined as I bobbed and weaved through the crush like a prizefighter. As soon as I set it down, the pizzas were claimed, and the girls took their usual seats.

Lisa always sits on floor cushions, by Anna, at the low, white coffee table. After a few bites, she hugged Anna, giving her a ”rawr.“ She hadn’t really seen her since the decoupling.
You iight?” she asked Anna.
Anna waved her hands in the air, like she was sweeping smoke away, because her mouth was full, but she nodded, ‘YES’ emphatically.

“Let's play something,” Leong said, meaning music on the linked Amazon Echos throughout the suite. “Choose!” she said, motioning to Anna.
Anna replied, “Don’t Wanna Fight” (by Alabama Shakes).
“A classic,” Leong agreed, searching it out. “Amen,” Sunny chuckled.
“Love it,” Lisa said, dancing in anticipation while seated on her cushion.
“Mmmm!” I added, because my mouth was full of pizza.
Cue ‘Don’t Wanna Fight.’

Two nights later, we were at one of those dances we jokingly call ‘fashion week events’ and Anna arrived a little late. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her messy-bunned copper-cherry red hair was highlighted with phosphorescent hair chalk that glowed penny bright in the right light.

She was wearing a red dress that looked painted on, her face sparkled with ‘unicorn snot’ glitter and her lips were a fun phosphorescent green, as if they were dipped in Kool-Aid.

“Look at her,” Sunny said, indicating Anna, “getting back on the horse and trying to arrange her next emotional trauma.”

“They grow up so fast,” I said, fake-dabbing my eyes like a teary parent.

I’d been on the road for thirty days, with no port in that storm,
Until you offered me an anchor and a smile to keep me warm,
You were all elbows and angles, pale and graceful as a foal,
With a voice like hummingbird wings, but a prizefighter for a soul,
I said, “Stay out of my dreams hero, there’s no tomorrow for you here,
Where sunny days feel like nothing more than darkness painted clear.”
I was a disheveled mess of jangles nerves and caffeine-colored eyes,
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she told me. “Everybody dies.”
Maybe you should have left me broken, adrift 1,000 miles off shore,
All that time you wasted on me could have saved so many more,
Still you took me by the hand and led me through the midnight rain,
Determined to remind me that life was always worth the pain,
You asked me who it was I meant to be, beneath the fog and rust,
And we walked along that old road until it crumbled into dust,
We were greeted by a gnarled tree that grew lonely on a hill,
With a heart carved in its trunk by lovers once and maybe still,
You said, “This is where the road ends, and disappears into the sea.
There is no answer in this darkness. There’s only you and me.”
When I drove you home that night, you softly kissed me in my car,
Before you walked away you laughed and said, “I see you, there you are.”
As days turned into weeks, we found each other bit by bit,
Sharing our secrets in a way that only silence can permit,
Tracing each line with a finger, you asked me if my scars had alibis,
We spent a sunny day in the park where we named all the butterflies,
And I wanted so badly to be happy, still it felt so out of reach,
You cooked pancakes for dinner, and I got drunk on the beach,
I found some cautionary caveat in the shy light of that moon,
Maybe you dreamed too easy, or maybe I gave up too soon,
I was a wreck, with self-neglect worn as my hollow crown,
I wanted you to love me, yet was terrified I’d let you down,
And I was all alone when that ringing phone shook me half awake,
Your voice fell into a thousand shards before the news could break,
Speeding towards the hospital, and I ran every single light,
Tears stinging both our eyes, I sat and held your hand all night,
With words like wrecking *****, the doctor tore our world apart,
And those machines lulled us to sleep as they sang your beating heart,
Too soon the light inside your eyes faded into a glossy glare,
As the needles fed you poison, I helped you shave off all your hair,
With no appetite for food, we watched our bodies slowly erode,
You told me I should walk away; I had no duty to share your load,
But I could never let you stand alone against catastrophe,
I just took you by the hand and said, “There’s only you and me.”
And as I talked in future tenses to carve out those pretty lies,
I just couldn’t see the forest past the trees around your eyes,
At night I paced the rooftop as stars taught me how to pray,
Maybe I needed to know hope mattered. I just needed you to stay.
But I never felt more helpless, or thought that you looked more like me,
Then when you took me by the hand and said, “Let me die with dignity.”
And I could only sit and watch that second hand waving goodbye,
As every single world I meant to say to you just came out as a sigh,
My heart was torn in half on the day God granted you reprieve,
Losing you was like losing the wind, like forgetting how to breathe,
And they tell me grieving is believing that the end is where we stop,
But maybe it’s one last lingering view taken from the mountain top,
As colors fade and seasons pass, I still remember you in every star,
And smile into the cold night air to say, “I see you, there you are.”

Striped to the nines
these cats carry pig stickers
animal kingdom death comes quicker
shoeshine, no sunshine, grease ain’t slicker
chalked out in lines
lead bellies line mines
outlaws make laws, break jaws
drop jaws, buy cars, bank rob
live like all-stars, a full-time job
all-grime, an all-crime job
a romantic era of terror
splashy ink does injustice
while they sidle Fords with Thompsons
every John a Dillinger, every Romeo a Clyde
everybody comes to terms with hunger and iron
everybody comes to town either starry or steely eyed
they leave or stay forever, never rich enough to justify why these are the streets they had to die on
it ain’t pretty
black eyed beauties and black tied beaus
lies as easy as blood when the liquor flows
guns and love and money, everybody knows
it’s all business, question contracts and the details get gritty
you can get in clean
but you have to get your hands ***** in this city.


A blues musician blew through the nightclubs with his sound
the rhythm of struggle, poetry and soul come alive
one with his voice, his guitar, singing of how he strived
to make it to the bright lights, he thought it was a miracle he survived
songs of Southland and heartache, the sounds of a segregated culture thriving above ground
what scratch he could collect
he would make if he had to play until he broke his guitar’s neck
wise enough to only accept cash up front, no checks
he was not ashamed of a spotlight
a bluesman can’t be afraid
he tore down the house six nights
and on Sunday he prayed
when he heard his music on the radio, riffs and lyrics ripped and splayed
the mournful soul, howling moon, woeful pontifications and rhythms all butchered onto a premier
a darker, sadder set of eyes than he had ever seen fell back on him from his own rearview mirror
outside of a studio, champagne bottles broken on his back for white rock and roll
at some hour when the sun was too far to imagine rising
he found himself peering over the edge of a darkness in his soul
and the liberating relief was frightening, he wanted to force it to feel surprising
a brown neck and a half ago he traded his first guitar, offered to sign it, too
pawnbroker bought it off him for a bill or two, said “Why, who are you?”
He swapped for a pistol under-the-counter and the bullets
bought a couple bottles of liquid encouragement to help him think it through
he drove out to the record label where the thief was lauded on the air
sitting is his car with his last guitar, barrel scratching his head, parting his hair
he was half-awake, about to leave when he saw four people walking out of there
a quick release, trigger, clutch and gas, the conspirators who stole his soul collapsed,
he drove into town to sell it back one piece at a time just as fast.


Putty in palms
men melt in her gaze
Medusa couldn’t ****** a man as easily
Penny flies with fancy and never stays
she was the high school sweetheart, girl next door,
to the star quarterback, to the class president, who fought viciously over her
who were sidetracked brawling while she was romanced by promises of city life
which swept her off the suburban sidewalk, and deposited her in a diner
where a man would come to blows over her, promising to make her his wife
she led men to collide with one another, they called her the Lucky Penny
she loved the attention, flirtatious eye-batting and men being reduced to fools
it was nothing shy of flattery, her chest felt empty without superficial value
and what is a better showing of what you’re worth than what someone else is willing to do to someone else to keep you?
She never really cared beyond the surface for any of them at all,
until, of course, she was ensnared herself by becoming a moll
Penny would only go steady with someone as beautiful as she was,
this invited trouble to her diner, because
a pretty-boy gangster oversaw collections in the area, just as handsome, just as clean
every bit as petty as Penny, twice as angry, twice as spiteful, and twice as mean
he carried a switchblade knife, a jackboot blade, he would love an excuse to cut ribbons out of skin
he had the sharps in spades, sharp wits, looks, angles, and cuts, when they met Penny was already done in
pretty boy promised her the moon, gave her a pad, he made sure she stayed living in the lap of luxury as long as it was his lap, and she’d never step out of line after the first time he got mad
she was number three in a marriage, in over her head and scared for her life
Penny, the apple of every man’s eye, a prisoner, mistress, and second to a mafia wife.

Ruthless killers aren’t these snarling giants
they’re scrawny, little, barbed wire, white men
capable of extreme and unconscionable acts of violence
you never see them until it’s too late for status quo, still water silence
deeper though, you never know, a gun is just bamboo, a ball and black powder, light it
your next-door neighbor could be the next news-maker, a headline teenager
used to be you’d never know somebody got shot if they popped 911 on your personal pager
the world isn’t spinning any faster, but these gray matters will age ya,
I say, going postal isn’t even a clever turn of phrase yeah?

Sunup in the city, Chicago typewriters were dogearing a page in history
like firecrackers going off just before dawn, you could see them from a sky penthouse
the locations of every execution, it wasn’t a mystery
a plan went off without a hitch, an overtaking in the criminal industry
you can say it, business is booming
body-bags went out by the half dozen to a dozen spots, by noon sirens were still zooming
out of precincts, hearses and coroners, ambulances and firetrucks, police too
it wasn’t a warzone, it was a crime scene, every block everywhere, put tape around the whole county
you could bring every citizen in as a witness, they’d probably all have a statement, it was anarchy,
an entire organization was weeded out and killed, with efficient brutality, and get this, no payment offered up for a revenge bounty
nobody retaliated, they were emasculated, eviscerated, devastated and decapitated, nobody knew who held the keys to the city, but we knew to revere the new monarchy
and for months there was humidity so thick it made me sweat through my collar, an air of anxiety
terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see…


So, I’ll put a bomb in the mail, watch his face turn pale, stand outside the window
make his wife a widow, I’m not settling for the ironic justice he doled out
my life wasn’t nothing, but now it’s always something, ever since I sold my route
a job in this town is a weapon in the wrong hands, if you work for good folks, you’ll be met with injust demands
I delivered payroll for a law firm, took an armored van and stuck to plans
making sure paralegals and secretaries and partners see their paychecks, private sector, shotgun overhead on the rack, nine-millimeter on my side, and rifle in the back
same three to a car, I always drive, if you’re gonna hit us in broad daylight, it’s gotta be on Monday when we’re fully loaded, as we cross this bridge and you better promise we all stay alive
I get my cut, a quarter million, a Judas’ fee to guarantee the financial security of my family and we’ll be packing live rounds if you think of double crossing me, for our own safety
that day hits, we come across the bridge to a traffic stop
I was sweating bullets, my partner rolled down the window to talk to the cop
an accident ahead, then a sudden, deafening pop
now I feel the adrenaline flood, my face is covered with my friend’s blood
I’m kicking at the door, a ricochet bites my ear, I think my head is gone
but even if I’m dead I’m still running for dear life, I’m going on
I hear screaming, automatic gunfire, he’s shooting, taking them out with him,
he’s dying, I’m ripping my uniform off and ducking out, half-blind, the lights get dim
it’s days later, I’m contemplating the darkest things I’ve ever thought, outside a ***** cop’s residence
I’ve barely eaten, I’ve barely thought of anything except tracking this heist crew down, and now I’m showing hesitance
I’ve followed them since that day, I know this is it, they’re all inside, four bad men got rich and two good men died
one coward allowed it to happen, I’m gripping my sidearm, they won’t strip me of my pride, I don’t need any evidence
He kicks the door in, gun drawn on four men, their families just outside, seconds tick away, sweat drips, feet sway, chairs slide and casings clatter, he serves up an equalizer on a platter, that day it’s not a blue matter, it’s a blood splatter, eight dead, four thieves and three collateral, with a lone gunman at the heart of it all.

Fisticuffs always calls up a type of fighter, former priors
agents looking at delinquency like juvenile homes are boxing regency
adopt a son, own a slave, train him to fight for his home and do it all legally
coattail riding, meal ticket punching, a prizefighter raised from adolescence
to do one thing as soon as he enters a ring, turn lights out, win a money bout, leave opponent with no recollections
a colored boxer, killing competition in a record winning Olympic position
never shies away from trouble he tucks his chin and takes it double
always looking on the uppercuts, combinations break safes, open faces and break up guts
a contender for a spot, he’s dreamt of this, he’d give everything he has now away for this shot
it’s a chance at a chance, the only one he’s got
he loves his foster father and his foster mother and it feels like they’ve worked to give him a lot
sitting front row in reserved seats, while ten rounds pass,
his brain rattles in his skull, while they eat popcorn and sit on their ***
hands trembling in his gloves, slumped in the corner, cut the swelling eyes to let him see
he is dying ninety seconds at a time, how long can he last?
His masters don’t stand unless he falls, their love is slavery
these gloves that keep his hands in fists are new cuffs, they contain him, set him free!
He spits blood on the mouthguard, leaves his teeth on the mat, presses off on his knuckles and clears the ten count with the referee
eyes like a monster, he finally snapped, and wore the leather out
he proved his love was stronger than anyone and anything,
by beating his opponent into a fatal coma, in twelve rounds, blood pooled at silent spectator’s feet, as he continued to swing
it was an undercard they never forgot when he went back to prison and left it all in the ring.

Terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see
and for months I dreamt of what I saw that day with no lucidity
I was locked down in the tragic relivings of a marred, scarred up, firebomb charred memory
they look for the truth in their ink, why does that burden fall on me?
All I am is all I could ever be!
Dogged, **** tired, I put a cigarette out on my arm to see if I’m awake sometimes
sometimes I do it to see if I’m alive, after bearing witness to fresh hell, in some crimes
investigative journalism, my life’s work, it’s all dirt
digging for one breathtaking coffin, until my lungs hurt
it’s misery in a city of misgivings on loop for eternity
they know no one can stomach the bottom; even the bottom falls out
and the bowels and the guts spit up their disgust, the bile discussed their vile supremacy in doubt
but the duty still lands in my lap and I carry it readily if wearily
a good deed is unheard of, which is why the death of all factions
all fractions of crime, all at one time, all one action done on a dime, is killing me
I know there’s something more behind it all, that kind of slaughter would take an army
where does it begin, who’s covering up, lying and playing pretend, where does one thread stop when another one ends?
Am I standing in a web or a noose?
Am I cutting through a conspiracy or am I cutting myself loose?
I feel as if I’m suspended by my own suspicion!
I am lost and I’ve been more directly involved, more focused on a mission!
There are laughs in the walls of motels where I stay,
when I take my pills and check out for the night they giggle “Have a nice day!”
I’m sure of nothing, why do I know there must be foul play!
The streetsweepers must have an agenda, they must profit in some way
but they don’t come out of the woodwork to claim any coercion or pay
any heroics or fame, if any figurehead stood behind them, that person stands at bay
while I wait with bated breath, knowing one thing of murderers who achieve a getaway
that they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death…

Once an aging prima donna fell upon a spotlight
with all the natural talent of the charismatic, valorous and gallant, a comet in the starlight
she could sing and act and dance and grant wishes with magic if directed so
so, she was a child when she graced stages with her presence every night
crushing the pressure of performances that sink politicians by the sheer size
she could captivate and entertain, dazzle, razzle, sizzle, and shock a crowd
ahead of her time and curb and curtain, her cast and calling, producers she seemed to hypnotize
evoking the ire of every other actress, singer, dancer and magic woman living loud
she burst with color onto silver screens and took the world that was hers by any means, the masses she could mesmerize
even in black in white they fell in love with the gaze of her baby blue eyes
and the only thing to slow or stop this comet’s meteoric rise
was time, she was too old for the parts they wanted every woman for,
tapdancing and vaudeville, lounge singing and musicals, from the ivory tower to the first floor,
an aging prima donna, who would never want to play a bit role or a fill a hole well, she was a goner
she wanted to trailblaze, turn these old ways into new days
and she only needed new opportunities, a chance to shine in her advanced age
for the elderly actress desired to perfect an archetype in drama, beginning with one screenplay page
she wrote herself a major part, around the central cast, so the young talent could shine in the brighter lights, while she would create a legacy to outlast
and they look for her today in her films and wonder what changed to make it so,
that the energetic and happy woman lost all her glow, to go and wither into shadows where she would play the crone and cantankerous, conniving, lonely gypsy or old widow.

In a new era, a new form, the prizefighter came back, weathered the case
five to ten
years off the prime of his career
militant Islamic conversion in the joint, scowl permanently on his face
disowned his adopted home, disemboweled his circle to scorch earth for some personal space
and worked harder to prove he deserved to earn the boxing commission’s good grace
got his boots back on, never out of shape, kept them laced
older and slower, but stronger than ever, a lifestyle change is a new pace
he met a new agent, a man with his true interests at heart, cross it and hope
he’s representing the same faith, referral by a cellmate, representing the same race
he’s educated and well-dressed, his lawyers got lawyers who all send money upriver
so why would he ever sell a fighter downstream? He’s all about one color, one power
the power is cash and the color is green! He’s selling prizefighting like a butcher sells liver
looking at his prime killer like he’s working by the hour, like the man has never been here
he’s lost speed, gained mass, sore in the bones from time’s past and passed in the joint, he’s one night away from an official anoint-
meant, appointment with the king, a racial salesman who takes advantage of the divide to provide a talking point with his melanin
when he doesn’t care, he doesn’t even see people before him as more than cattle or less than human
and with every victory he’s seeing clear, the field he’s standing in is tall grass
he’s struggling to see the path he walked in on, but he’s got to keep burning through the gas
promotion, fight, rounds of blood and sweat, hand held high, interview gab, it’s not over yet
locker room politics, agents and deals, brands and lawyers and contracts, contacts, pagers and producers, politicians and televisions and business meals
he’s got a clear role on only one side of things, that’s why he lets the bird out of the cage because money talks and sometimes ******* sings
but when it comes down to trimming the fat, he earns his living in training and between the ropes in how he lives and how he wins when he swings
and he goes out with a record of sixty fights with eight losses and no contest, one of the most controversial champs to duke it out in those rings.

That they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death
I swear to ******* God I’m being followed ever since I left the last spot, it’s like the city knows I’ve been holding my breath
it started choking me, hands wrapped around my neck, I’m cut off from my office I can’t even cash a field check, I left my kids in the separation, this story is it, I don’t have nothing left
I’m chasing lights where there’s only flickering projectors, looking for the big picture at the point of origin
it’s never going to reveal itself to me, I hear the voices of professors trampling my voice again
the streets don’t just open up and take every killer, thief and ****** back, every assault charge and corrupt landlord, cop, lawyer and councilman
all the big fish swam away after the attack, like rats on a sinking barge, it’s their word full stop, against the everyman
but if the system breaks down at the point of their cogs, the people who do their ***** work, and witnesses all suddenly outnumber them with righteous indignation, armed and willing to catch a case then…
Who’s going to be left to clean up after that?
Three days, five days, eight, fully awake with the full realization, a health hazard with walls where I sat
the story of the century in my lap, I looked like warm crap, like something the buildings and streets formed teeth to chew up in their maw and back out they spat
figures not even the bones of this old gal would like the flavor of an emissary to the truth
I rattled my fist to the ceiling on the ninth day, kicked a rat of my mattress, pulled the story off my typewriter, and muttered “Let’s see how they like that!”
for the first time I saw daylight, I saw a kid standing outside waiting to rob me, hand in his pocket, he cocked a hammer and told me to drop it,
I stood frozen, sure everything was true if they were waiting to stop it going through the presses, I was ready to die when an old man came by, chased him off with a cane and yelled “Stop it!”
this boy dropped two rocks he clicked together to make a gun noise in his coat and ran, I was stunned and I just studied the face and thanked God for the old man
I interviewed him, a source for my civilian militia, and next week I was in a real bed in my apartment when they ran the issue.

Many months ago, something crazy happened, our family had a tight net over the whole city then it snapped and
lieutenants, enforcers, soldiers all turned on each other on the orders of opposing captains
we turned to our cops, sergeants and detectives, turns out their own were capped before then
cops were ******* with corruption and a lone gunman who hit their families and crossfire killed three kids, four men, rich thieves died poor men,
every single lawyer and city politician at that time was locked up with all eyes on the boxing commission and a homicide spree tied to a ******’ blues musician
it was like all the focus left and they let clowns just step in, meanwhile we were undermined by our own kind, greedy backstabbers and
they cost us the whole operation, cannibal rats, growing fat off our own hind end
in the confusion every two-bit hood and crook, every able-bodied gun and ******, every veteran and rookie, all the way from the bottom to the Consigliere got took,
I found the underboss hanging on to evidence that shut the Don out of the state from a firebombed butcher’s shop in the back by a meat hook, bullet riddled legs limp and falling off, a dozen dead thugs by a card game in the back, plates with cold steak and scrambled eggs
papers ran facts on the carnage, questioned the anarchy, only one washout journalist tried to explain
he must have racked his brain, put himself through so much pain,
in a blind spot there was just another crime, on a scale that looked insane
he said good people were out there, outnumbering the bad
that no matter the hard times, those breed helping hands from survivors who know what they’re like, because they see you having the same day they’ve had
his words were in print, but I felt them reaching out and the fingertips fell short of the grasp
he was a man drowning in senseless slaughter, coming up for air and that was what he saw in a gasp
I know they need hope, but they don’t know it like I do, it’s the environment that breeds the opportunity, otherwise we would never get away with what we do
people don’t make the city clean
you know what I mean
there’s a system, they operate it, a monolithic, twisted, broken glass jaw of a weaker species that spits spiteful and sick ****, it’s full of hatred, eyes red, bureaucrats that ******* cats to see them land on their backs, it only speaks the language of violent acts so it only understands you if you attack, everything in the string-pullers is the least of actual humanity, it’s forsaken because they are the most of what a person lacks, and we answer to their highest calling it’s brass tacks, it’s a blood tax, it’s a wish come true light the candle at both ends and wait until there’s no more wax,
the city isn’t *****, it was built by us, it wasn’t perfect when we got here, but we **** sure broke her trust, you either live the life you want or you die how you must.

I used to feel your pride.
I felt like your prodigal son.
Now, I am unsure if I can return home.
My sins are unknown to me.
Did I fail you?
Do I mock you with my presence?
Did I commit the greatest sin of all and disappoint?

The silence hangs over me like a shadow.
Words unsaid box my mind like a prizefighter.
Phone calls never made compel me to fill the void.
Did I go too far?
Is the distance to blame?
Did I commit the greatest sin of all and disappoint?

Now, I lie in wait.
Wondering if I should be the bigger man and make the first move.
You may be oblivious to the pain.
Do you miss my voice?
Do you long for my stories?
Did I commit the greatest sin of all and disappoint?

it's like me
landing suddenly
on an empty island
drifting on a sunless beach
stumbling over cold shifting sand
waves roaring
strong winds pounding me
like a dazed prizefighter
going down for the count
me
lost and alone
wondering what hopeless hell i'm in now

I feel like I owe this to you,
even though I don't know your last name.
I don't know how you smile
when he tells you that you're beautiful,
and I don't know how you feel inside
when you're both laying in bed at night
after he takes what he doesn't deserve.
I don't know how you'll react
when you're finally honest with yourself
and realize that he is a prizefighter
and being with him is like a boxing match,
that you won't win without a struggle.
And every time the bell sounds
you'll be less and less equip to defend yourself
the longer you allow him
to keep ******* at
your sense of self.

So let me be your cutman,
wiping the sweat from your brow
and strongly suggesting you forfeit;
because eventually
his charisma and charm
will seem like a distant memory
and you'll forget
why you started this fight at all.
I guess I'm just trying to say
get out with your integrity intact,
while you still can,
and I hope
you never have to feel
the way I felt.

I’m happy to be here,
Alive and well.
I once lost all I held dear,
Tumbling down into hell.

But I rose out
Like a prizefighter;
Off of the net with a
Lively propulsion,
And into Death’s
Ugly,
No good,
Mug.

I’m happy to still be alive.
Not because I enjoyed rising above,
But because I
Wouldn’t ever have beheld
The beauty that has passed by.

And I know,
More is on it’s way.
So I can only pray,
To share this beauty with others.

You left hair in the tub,
toothpaste splatter on the mirror,
a wadded towel on the rod,
wet footprints on the floorboards
marking a stumble to the kitchen
where you guzzled milk
from the carton, there with
the door open, cold spilling
out like flumes to your feet -
and I loved it.

A sudden spasm raked,
raked your shoulders,
your torso, all caught
ecstatic at the mingling
of milk and hot bath blood.

Wearing your robe
like a prizefighter,
pink to the ring
and gearing up for a bout
that never comes -
now that's the stuff
my sweet **** -
that's the stuff of the long fight,
the long familiar,
the mustache I lick from your upper lip.