Bills in my wallet folded into wads, unsorted in their random cacophony
Smiles on the faces of those ignorant enough to ignore suffering
Cuts on her feet like symbols in the stars
From her voice I was told the taste of kiwis and ginger root
From her kiss I was sharing nicotine and half exhaled cigarette smoke
And from our silence there is an overlapping ambience of dead noise
From our comprehension we realize our ignorance
From our comprehension we realize out insignificance
It is reassuring to know that you are a compilation of subatomic structures
It is comforting to know your matter is just recycled stardust
From a smile between crooked teeth and chipped molars I find comfort
In knowing that your heart is like a sponge absorbing all my poison
And somehow you exhale such radiance, a phenomenon
I marvel from my spot in the yard, watching sparrows chase
crows

Silence is the beat of a dead man’s heart
Raindrops have never felt colder, at one
in the morning
A cigarette in the thunder and darkness,
destroying me
Satellites rolling from my shoulder blades
down my spine
Transmitting quiet thoughts into my
eyelids
Refracting memories at heartbeats a
second
This ambient sound engulfs
thought
And the pen stroke outruns the
thought
A few brews deep and you’re already thinking of
tomorrow
But those days are beyond your grasp, forget them for
the present
Where the tangible become reality, and reality
becomes livable
Reflecting a thought on the edge of
consciousness
And from our awareness comes
discontent
And the falling, heavy, raindrops, forget
their impact
Shattering like liquid glass on the tongues of
dying men

Broken glass mosaics in gutters and sidewalk cracks
Endless nights of glowing screens and quiet music
Long haired children with surfboards and cigarettes
I flick the ashes off mine in greeting to hollow eyed friends
Shaking from early morning hangovers
The clouds settling in low places among scrub hills
Ocean crashing reminds me I’m still human
Sand castle dreams viewed through broken windows
Pulled a thousand directions in a moment, comprehend none of it
Smiling for no reason when fingertips meet and eyes cascade radiance
Laughing in deep places with no expression
And out of our togetherness, there is profound silence
In dark concrete rooms with the smell of detergent
Unfolded clothing on the bed and empty bottles of gin
Words on the page, meant so much more last night
Now just scratches in ink and pencil, another idea to discard
Sparrows scatter from high lines and we take our first
breath

Tired static over old A.M. radios, voices like ghosts, slurring Slavic,
the faded label on a bottle of Stolichnaya
Burnt embers on the tip of shaking cigarettes, flicked into open space,
falling like snow flakes
Tired eyes half shut, dimly replaying a far away song behind flickering
eyelashes
No smiles, no laughs, no interruptions of voice or spirit to dislodge this sublime
apathy
Quotes from Mehmedinović on crumpled pieces of paper, jammed into pockets or
wallets
Blue bands around the arms so his comrades know who to shoot
at
The laughter of children, who have seen so much sorrow, to laugh is
to cry
These children become men, to pick up their guns, and join friends
as corpses at the base of Lapišnica
"This is the way it's always been, Sasha." hollow voices repeat, thin as
reeds, breathing the phrase many times a day
Overturned like a cup of bad coffee, lives spilled on the floor and left
to dry
Boot prints in the mud, one after another, someday they'll collect grass
and we'll all forget
Shining brass casings among the lilies, someday they'll be covered by weeds
and we'll all forget
The walls will be rebuilt, plaster spread, lives sewn together like ripped
clothing
Someday we’ll all forget, this blessing of
silence

Green garden, my lovely little garden
over run with weeds
Cracked dirt, no water to be found
broke the spigot
Neat rows, gouged between spiny thorns
sweating, back bent
Such a waste, to throw down this seed
poached by ants
Some day I'll till it all, lovely garden
never work again

How is it three years, and I still have the same dreams?
Can you explain that to me, lovely sparrow?
Clutching olive branch and yew bark
Grabbing in the dark for cold water, sweating down the glass
Bitter chlorine and calcium built up on the face
Mineral finger-paints, broken down with linseed oil and worn palms
Your eyes behind those old glasses, working clay on the wheel
Such pride in glazed pots collecting rain on the patio
Paving stones laid in sand, the last few crooked on account of the cervesa
Dry in the mouth like panting dogs, deadweight collapsed on threadbare carpet
How do we convince ourselves that it is desirable to be alone?
I hold you in my arms in a dream, whoever you are
Pulling all the strands out of a wicker basket, creating uselessness
Chattering keys on a laptop like shivering teeth
Coughing, faceless, men, the embodiment of misery in this night
The most beautiful pair of eyes I've ever seen, what other secrets lie beneath
that hijab?
Just a passing glance, most of the people we see, we will never see again
How is it some make such a profound impression with nothing more than a
smile?
Lying under the Joshua tree, surrounded by dirt roads leading nowhere in particular
Warm water mingles with the sweat on your lip
A sigh that send chills through me
The restless wind, nothing more

Bones in the rye field they sang, brittle stems of iron spreading leaves of
rust
A hidden look in watery eyes, secret sickness, ripping my guts
asunder
That space between midnight and morning when the world has been reduced
to monotone
In the blue-gray lucidity we sit, absorbed in cigarettes and gusting
wind
A few notes of Satie and I’m sitting in that blue room again, bamboo out the
window
Your voice like a finger running up my spine, singing to me, drowned out by
spring showers
Clay pots on the shelves, wilted sunflowers on the floor, grass pushing its way
through the floorboards
I step into falling rain, dream of sleep, dream of nothing, the blankness between
wakefulness
Hands carrying the scars of a thousand days, much like the day before, unconscious of
its passing
In tired two syllable words we exchange our hearts
In smiling kisses we pass each other breath, fresh like fertile ground split by
rugged plow
Black and white photographs in odd fitting drawers with cheap brass
handles
A pocket watch carried by many men before me, strewn upon stained counters
and newspaper clippings
I will these tired eyes to come to their senses, absorbed in a single word in a single
line
Losing their focus for minutes at a time, the sensation of drifting, the feeling of
fading
Like watercolor or lines in well-trod earth, shuffled into meaningless
harmonics
I still miss the sound of your violin, though you thought no one listened through
that ***** window
Scraps of Scriabin and Brahms, your symphonies saved me many a night
Such frail hands and white scalp, but you did not shake when bow met
fingers
Those nights of cheap Merlot, secretly stealing a moment of calm from your
skilled hands
The records never quite rivaled those nights, my unknown
friend

Uncounted words on the page, attempting to mimic brilliance
Predictable as playing Russian roulette with an automatic
Forced sterility, impossible as drawing a straight line
The wrist won’t comply, simply cannot, no reason to attempt it
We fool ourselves with second hand ambition, discard our
own greatness
Quiet and sublime, carelessly letting our spark burn out
Do you remember what it was to be a child?
Nothing but used up memories with no sound
Black and white like some old movie, lips moving, no voice
Barefoot dreams are all that remain for me
Empty promises made to one’s self, surrendered so
easily
Nights of Bach on the radio, hiding behind closed doors and
cheap wine
Days of endless monotony, dark stairs and the smell of
scrubbed mildew
An afternoon spent in your arms, making love under the
pecan trees
I almost saw your yesterdays, beautiful creature, when I met your
eyes, laying there
A little girl, running with a sparkler in each hand, screaming her
defiance to the world
Holding onto what’s left of each other, two halves, trying to make a
whole

Lost my air from a parting glance, a split second that haunts my
memories
The crunch of gravel beneath our bare feet, tired arms
around my neck
Dancing drunk in the morning, waiting for the dandelions to unfold dying
arms
Feta cheese and Greek olives, hummus on flat bread, a sip of
merlot
A kiss with dim eyes under live oak branches, a parting breath,
exhaled into open skies
I turn under the disc of the sun, chased by moon and clouds,
the clear quiet of night
I surrender my thoughts to the dead leaves, broken branches,
my holy totems
I lay my voice on wild grasses; let it float down, drip into
running water
I write my words on ***** walls, tomorrow scratched to illegible
nothings
Outlines of small hands on colored paper, hard to believe we were all
children, once

The grass bends down beneath my feet accordingly, only to rise,
rise again
The waves break on pebbles, sand, only to crash again on
distant shores
Pulled back through quiet memories, the soft smoked smell of
mesquite & juniper
Lying in the heart of a gray metal shell, laid length-wise, molded into
a mad-mans image
Falling through old, tired, lives, with such innocence, clean &
unburdened by life
Accumulating this tiredness, begrudgingly ground down, absently
tossed aside
Never asking why, like beasts led to slaughter, not of flesh & bone,
put principle & ideal
Dreams of silver, fading into tarnished piles of rust, distorted image,
mocking faded beauty
Quiet nights spent in the shade of moonlight, watching the stars go
down with you
Dreaming of sunshine as the dew collects on our sleeping
faces
Awakened by the fleeting song of cardinals, staring into lattice-work
clouds

I stubbornly waste time that could have been better spent
daydreaming
I quietly waste lines, fill them with ugly thoughts, should have
laid down the pen
Exhaling the last drag, sudden lightness, inevitably followed by
relentless heaviness
Eyes wide shut
I attempt to slow myself down, but my legs won’t allow it, my
hands plainly refuse it
Though my mind screams for it, fueled by caffeine & nicotine,
crashing & burning occasionally
Always resurrected by your memory, our memory
Faded & worn around the edges like boxes of old photographs,
collecting dust

Living life with everything you own stuffed into bags, two of them, dragging yourself
along
Living for that hour on the phone, once a day where you can really breathe
again
By blind luck or some odd chance I stand barefoot on this cold, tile, floor,
tonight
Coughing out the last drag of a cigarette, waiting for the last load to finish spin
cycle
Crammed into rooms of what were once strangers, now brothers, more so than
blood
Brothers through mutual suffering, who have stood by you in the rain & sun, we slept
with our boots on
I fill the page with thoughts, but crumple them into ugliness, only to try again, my
definition of insanity
Awash in unnoticed silence, bombarded by ignored white noise, that is truly
inescapable
To experience that silence one must sleep, dreamless, but does one even register
that blissful absence?
Or do we simply drift in & out of these days, unconscious of our own consciousness,
simply breathing?
Someone once said “we are all alone together”, truly we are simply alone,
nothing more
When you step back from it, life becomes almost comical, a grand production,
on a world scale
We are so trapped in our plastic & concrete lives; we have forgotten the feeling of
dirt between our toes, in our hair, under your perfect, pink, fingernails
To stand naked in the creek & watch the sun burn through lazy piles of
clouds
We try to remember those things, but it is tarnished, like cheap silverware, stained
like her cheap china plates
We toil & we sweat & we sign our lives away to walk into a coffin, all that’s left a
pile of bones & pictures on the fridge
To fit a mold, to achieve some sterile, dictionary definition of happiness, a tie & suit
smile & a pack of smokes a day
Drinking to forget the sound of the alarm clock, the feeling of that dull razor dragging
across your face
And this page is worthless, like the words “****” scratched out In the bathroom stall,
faded black lines
And these words are pointless, if I hung it somewhere it would be torn down, if I read it aloud
I’d be laughed at
But I sit here & lie to myself again, push another line out of this careless
ballpoint
The buzzer clicks on & I throw the socks in the dryer, they’ve shed their dirt, but mine
is harder to wash away

A streetlamp, spilling artificial brightness, illuminating my
exhaled cancer
Humming quietly, flickering off, on, distracting the moths
lazy tumble
Since April I’ve stared at this same scene, this field of
grit &  asphalt
Brimming with the glossy colored shells of vehicles, now silent
& dull with grime
Sickly yellow light cascading over them, automated, dead,
light
I remember the ocean, so very different to be out in it then
standing on the shore
Watching the swells through a maze of gray pipes, a window
into blue nothing
With a rifle in my hand, the very same I’ve held for many months
now
Sitting under the shade of boulders & netting, watching the
shadows rearrange themselves
Clothing stiff & stinking from my sweat, the dirt worked into my
skin
Wrapped in a poncho liner, boots left on, praying to stop thinking,
merciful sleep
Most nights I can find it with ease, but others, like tonight, it evades
me
At the edge of unconsciousness I am suddenly confronted by some voice
behind my eyes
Teasing me with memories I’m not sure are memories anymore, so much
as scenes from another’s life
Something long gone, like a smoking **** flicked away, or that first breath
on a September morning
Staring into a blue sky, Cardinals singing in the branches

Smashing light bulbs in the dark to see
shattered sparks
Growing flowers to pull off all the petals
individually
Saved in the pages of unread novels, piles of
words
By some madman who had something to say, still has
something to say
Collect yourself for the next day, take a deep breath &
sleep
Because it will likely be worse than today, if not,
rejoice
Because you beat the odds, gamed the game
for once
I quietly thumb through faded photographs, trying
to remember that day
One of them, any of them, something to try for
again
Because I cannot dream anymore, I forgot
how
Somewhere along the line, it all drained
away
Crushed every morning at five thirty by screaming
alarm clocks
Damning me, sending me to hell, glaring red
numbers
Sweating out the anger, childishly smashing my
knuckles to pieces
I am temporary as the clouds spinning 'round the
mountains
One of these days, I'll climb them & try my luck at
flying

The dirt is collecting in the creases of empty
pages
Obscuring the words, my own, not worth
reading
Spat onto yellow notebook paper, ugly
handwriting
Burnt alive in her shell, devoted & destroyed by
her faith
Lovingly left to the
dogs
Carelessly spent like every paycheck you've ever
earned
Wasted on the cheapness of mass produced
poison
Half gone before we began, gone before
we knew better
Our transience mistaken for permanence, out of
ignorance
My belated "I love you" to late to matter
much
Just words by the time they're spoken, empty as
her promises
The sun still shines & the grass still dries, but the
silence has abandoned us
Predicting that quietness, absorbing sterile
noise
Put down the pen, crumple the page, writing about it never
changed a thing

Collapsing by the blue wall where the flies come to die
Where the sun is just hot enough to give you a headache
Flicking embers off, reducing themselves to ashes
Half a cigarette and I’m off
Drag myself up with tired, cracking hands
Push myself on with a bad ankle, old eyes
So many footprints in this dirt, lost its identity
Just a placeholder for a thousand impressions
Grass pushes itself up between the door frame
Green threads in her little blue room
Listening for the wind chimes in their silence
Listening for your footsteps, barefoot in the
bamboo

Washing sand from cuts on my
feet
Wiping grains from the corners of my
eyes
A hundred stones, bouncing together
musically
Tossed back and forth by rushing salt water,
seaweed
I sit here in silence, waiting for the last
puff
Off a cheap cigarette, pulled from cellophane,
cheap wrapping
Adorning your arms with a ball point
pen
A human canvas, framed by smiling green
eyes
And the ocean crashes with tired
repetitiveness
While we are still unaware that we even
exist
Or that we will someday, maybe even today,
cease

Rusting in the shade of sycamore trees, fields of
puzzlegrass
Naked in pools of water, naked on the rocks in
the sun
Sweat melting down into puddles of ice, blown back
& forth
Erasing lines on the page, crumpling up fingerpaint
pictures
Your beautiful handwriting on my back, ink under our
fingernails
Quiet little lines in my notepad, saved for you
alone
Reflections of sleepless nights with your charms
on the nightstand
Left carelessly in the morning, lovingly left
behind
I read those pages, & with a sigh, rip them to
pieces

No memories, no plans, just empty days full of
headaches
Sour apples on the window sill, sour grapes with
no seeds
Bought in sterile supermarkets where everything is
half-price
Wilting in the halflight of ***** windows and
paintchips
Smile with me, Maria, the day is almost done,
We can dip our hands in the canal, wash it away
Carry me where you will, among the brambles and
reeds
Let me sleep in your arms, just hold me,
please

Breaking up stones to see sea shell patterns
Staring at stumps to see rings degrading, slowly
Sitting on a cardboard box in an empty room
Blowing out my mind with mechanical precision
Today I wrote all my poems in a letter, sent them
to my father
Told him to open it if I didn't make it home
I want him to open that letter

The dust in kicking up, windy night in New Mexico
Watching the moon rise up over cactus & canals
Listening to rocks become pebbles
Filling our stomachs with cold water
Under the blanket you wove for me, the one
we slept in
On that cold October night, when we thought the
sun would never rise
And when it did, it shone with such brillance
Stuck our hands out, between the cracks, just
to catch its radiance
To stop the shaking, it set me on edge
Made me want to run, just to feel myself sweat
But I'd just fall facedown in the snow
Lost in a canyon, full of black rocks,
dead trees
And a silence we forgot existed

Stains on the concrete like blooming brown flowers
Piles of wild grass, dry as sand, tracing a path up the curb
Potholes brimming with ***** water, a gleaming sheet of oil
Rotten houses, with all the windows smashed into collages
of razors
Stinking in their own slow decay, eaten away by time &
termites
The trees in the yard have shed their leaves, blanketing
the ground in fading brilliance
Fingers of breeze shift them, rustling with the sound of
a thousand roaches
Shedding the mornings condensation on the boots of
two legged insects
A pile of walking guts, giving nothing, taking everything
Vomiting their poison on the soil, reaping their foul
harvest
Wielding guns & machetes, cannons & swords, sticks &
stones
It's bone against bone, hand against hand, man destroying
man
Because the definition of war is many men dying for a few mens
interests

A quiet book of words, from a lonely man in his room
Her tiny voice, like pebbles rolling down a stream,
surrounded by pines
Sand between her toes, humming a song her mother used to sing,
forgot the words
Holding my head in your arms, blue little room, listening to
the wind chimes
Your bamboo forest, outside this ***** window, full of
ladybugs & grasshoppers
Green grass drying to hollow shells, snapped off by careless hands
Brushed away by gentle winds, spread among limestone & juniper
Standing barefoot on the paving stones, her toenails painted
yellow with black dandelions
A sip of iced tea, lemon, a bite of steamed rice
Trying to put a few thoughts together, letting the day simmer down
We'll sit together a while longer, listen to the crickets in the bamboo
Waiting, quietly waiting on your voice, the only thing
that keeps me dreaming anymore

Quietly loving you, quietly holding my heart in your hands
Sitting under this leaking roof, gripping each others hands
Running my fingers through your short, black, hair
You wrap your arms around me, sweat, breath
Eyes telling me something words cannot, never will
Your breath has a voice of its own, drowning my mind
Spinning my body down to ground level, bottoming out
Resting shoulder blades on these old floor boards
Hearing the groaning of this dusty house
But this stillness overwhelms me, compounding my reflections
Wasting notepad upon notepad, trying to describe these nights with you
Balling up countless verses, throwing them in a pile
Waiting for this roof to cave in one day, so we can watch the sunrise
From the warmth of our blankets on the floor

Young man, just a shell, with a sigh of 'oh well'
Ripping up roots with worn hands, wiping sweat from beaten brow
Scratching lines in the field with his fathers plow
Praying for the rain, living for the sun,
only to rot in the ground
But the grass still grows, drying & dying as it always has,
like we all will
Scattering itself among a forest of rusting iron
& oily puddles
You were young once too, before you knew what it meant
to die
You were young once too, before you had to pay your life
away in toil
Now we're old, you & me, the years have run their course
Now we're old and it all makes sense,
and it never meant a thing

You're a quiet thought in the middle of the night,
when I'm so tired I can't sleep
My saving grace when I can't catch my breath,
or take that next step
I'm doing this for you, even though I'll never have you,
my love
Trying to tell myself I'm used to being alone,
the old lie
Telling it to myself for so long I almost believe it
But I can't fool these sleepless nights,
methodically destroying my illusion
These sleepless nights which run me into the ground
And when I finally fall asleep, I dream of nothing

I live in my red brick house on the sea
Forgetting my days as days run past
Forgetting the past like words on the wind
Forever floating away on the tides of though
My eyes have ceased seeing, my hands lack feeling
Everything is monotone darkness, nothing but absence
I grasp the sand blindly, crying out in frustration
Is this how you saw yourself so long ago?
Such ambitions you had, such dreams and aspirations
Hold back the tears, hold back the bitter thoughts,
Yesterday I could see, today my eyes betray me.

The burden of silence, punctuated by the rain
Lonely days, happily interrupted by your smile
Charms off your necklace, sitting behind collected stones
From my days of wandering, forgotten days of youth
playing you a song I've never heard before
Chords at random, eyes closed, fret by fret
Your hands flutter through photographs, discolored by age
Snapshots of faces gone or going, only a fuzzy memory
Like crossed out letters, names on a list, slowly piling up
Yellowed pages crumbling, swept away by grasping wind
Sending fragments of thought wherever they chance to land
In the form of drifting lines of verse, carried on breezes
Stomped into mud puddles, flattened by rain
Spilling ink into saturated soil, a stain among stains
Reincarnated in curling blades of grass

I am here and here I will stay
Find me and keep me if I chance to run astray
Tender hands, lead me to cool waters
Wash the sweat and dirt away
Sitting in tall grass, the wind stirs it rhythmically
Whispering her secrets to curling brown blades
Strong backs till the soil, lines in the field
Calloused hands, tossing stones aside, endlessly
Hands rubbed raw, spilling seed down rows
Old eyes watch clouds rush by, denying their heavy burden
Promising themselves it will be just another day
Where do we go from here, the question resonates
I've asked myself for many years, no answer yet
Another road to walk down, winding its way out of sight
Nothing to do but walk

My back is stiff, my eyes are heavy
Sitting under live oak branches, waiting for the rain
Pecans litter the ground, their shells hard & matte
Yet the core is rotten, the shells deception
I watch your calloused hands, blistered & raw
A face drawn tight with every rasping breath
Telling stories through wine-stained lips
Of open country, trails that lead to nowhere
My heartache disguised behind a smile
Sounds of wet wood catching in the open fire
Add another log, to see us through this hour
Tell me another story, father..

Knee deep in swaying green grass
Moving like salsa dancers, tempo, tempo
Walking along old paved roads
Fragments of tejano from speeding, *****, trucks
Rushing towards me, receding into the distance
Step, step, one after another, clear blue sky
Shadows of barbed wire criss-cross, rusty, hooked, threads
Moon lingering in the sky, waiting for its turn
A swig of warm water, to wash the dust away
Spat onto burning pavement, dreaming of shade

Box fan chops up the light pouring
through my window.
Distorting birdsong as it rotates around
& around.
Your silhouette, casting a shadow on the carpet,
in my imagination.
Fresh strings on my guitar, standing in the corner,
unwinding, to be re-tuned.
Sitting on my bed, watching shadows run
their predictable course.
A cocoon rests on the sill, artificial framework, escaping
its organic shell.
Only to be trapped by the screen, never
saw a flower.
Just a pair of dried wings, crumbling
on the window sill.

Scribbles on a yellow notepad, this ink won't last
Letting sweat dry from a long walk, half way there
I didn't notice it on my first passing, or my second
Third time is the charm they say, don't they?
Now I sit in this scummy drainage ditch, writing
A tree, growing from a pile of waste concrete
Dumped carelessly by rough, tired, hands
Green leaves adorn it, this oddity, only a sapling
Like a flower on the peak of Mount Everest
Or an ice cube in the middle of the Gobi
This is not so grand, this urban contradiction
Some day it will be as tall as me, maybe taller
Stretching its limbs, eroding its base
Praising sun rays through photosynthesis
Pushing down roots through man made constructions
Reclaiming the soil from which all life springs & returns

Rains turned a blind eye, & the world dried to dust,
choked.
Then all the worms died, baking in cracked, rotten
soil.
When this is over, it'll be like we never really were in
the first place.
Just dirt, soon enough at least, when we find our place
among the worms.
No page will remember our names, who would care to
know them?
Another wave of life, pushed over the edge, into
the organic meat grinder, six feet under.
Do we keep breathing, this same breath, or do we
stop all together.
Do we walk on, or pause & listen to the
oceans crashing music.
Do we blink, or let our eyes dry, sitting behind
***** glass windows, watching it all cave in.
Endless streets, scattered faces, a million different
stories, untold.
I'd like to know the names of cavemen, to utter
them once again.
Just to say I didn't forget, just to pretend I
tried.
I saw your hand prints, outlines from smoke on
rocky walls.
I wish I knew your stories, your common words
& wisdom.
It's that way for every name through history,
recorded or otherwise.
If we took every misery suffered by man, and wrote a book,
would you read it?
Would you burn it?

Writing words in the low light, the night light
By gray illumination, pooling on my window sill
Casting a shadow on the carpet, though dimly
Faint traces of music, on the edge of hearing
Teasing my ears as they filter under the door
I'd like to hear it, to replay it once or twice
But I sit here writing in the low light, the night light
Outlining thoughts for no one to read
Wasting ink has become my night time obsession
Hoping for sleep, the insomniacs dream

A dreary September day, raindrops the size of quarters,
smacking into the windshield at 60 miles per hour.
Passing through this subdued city, a concrete jungle,
grown quiet in the tempest.
Gravel & broken glass tumble over flattened bottle caps
& cigarette butts, into the gutter.
A lone man in a white shirt & blue tie rushes for his car,
stomping through puddles, newspaper covering his bald head.
He must be thinking about getting out of the rain,
or getting back to his office, his tired cubicle life,
or how he's going to make it through another endless day.
Selling his soul & happiness for enough money to support
three kids, his wife & his mother, to put bread on the table.
To have a nice little house in a nice little suburb with a
nice little lawn, a tombstone, a paragraph in the obituaries.
Now we're crawling along the asphalt, the scene replaying itself,
a different story, but the same, always the same.
A figure strolling between dumpsters, looking for a dry spot,
a blur down an alleyway as we speed by.
If it wasn't raining, she'd be on the corner with a sign,
living on dollars a day, enough to buy a few beers &
forget about it all for a while, until the next day.
To many signs with "Veteran" or "I have children"
or simply "Help." To many people with signs.
Then you really begin to see them, crouching under balconies,
one or two at first, do you really even notice?
Just a nameless name, a faceless face among faces, a storyless
story, with so many stories to tell you.
Mismatched shoes, a shirt to small & to thin for this
ripping wind, this freezing, tearing wind.
Under overhangs in any dry place they can find,
a kingdom of soggy cardboard & pipe dreams.
But this is nothing compared to the overpasses,
every single one packed to the brim with the homeless,
escaping from the downpour, trying to find a place to sleep.
The night is coming and the rains still pouring, and the winds
still howling, and I have a warm bed to collapse on.
I have food in the pantry & food in my stomach, & clothes on
my back, & hope for tomorrow, such hope I have, such illusion.
I remember his face, as we sat at the red light,
waiting for the trivial green to wave us on our way.
Old enough to be my father, huddled in his blue poncho, slick
from the rain, shaking from the cold, waiting for the night.
Beard like tangled roots, hair gray as concrete,
just like concrete.
His eyes told of emptyness, of routine, clenching that
brown bag idly, watching the world pass by.
Another name that fell through the cracks, for no particular
reason, things piled up, what could you do?
No job would hire you, you were just a pink slip, then a
foreclosure, then it all went to ****.
Your eyes catch mine, for that brief second as we pull away,
& I finally see your sign, such beautiful handwriting:
"I am human."

***** beats, kids barefoot in the street
Running up & down across two yellow lines
In little parks with iron fences, dead grass
Surrounded by broken fences & empty houses
Rotting off their own foundations
Slowly the foundation crumbles,
after the frame is long gone.
Slowly the grass reclaims concrete,
transmutes into soil.
With roots as deep as oily puddles,
runoff after the downpour.
Waste your life in four cornered rooms
Contain your life in ceilings & floors
End your life under cheap sheets
There is a garden out back, full of weeds
Strangling out sunlight with noxious yellow flowers
I've turned over that soil so many times
But only weeds grow

Sun rays roll down the green grass & ochre weeds
Yellow, bitter, flowers, litter the hillside
Long red rays turning pink as split figs
Orange as hot coals, blue as the ocean
Then the bustle of twilight, such noise
Streaking headlights fade into receding redness
Carrying their sound with them, down the road
Figures, sillouhetes, wander by me, quiet conversations
Wind stirs their outlines, rustles their clothing, their hair
Bringing me the scent of dust, of split juniper
Darkness descends, but it cannot ***** out street lights
Or the flourescent floodlights, glaring artifical brightness
Or the blinking red eyes of radio masts
I'll peddle back now, chased by headlights
Down black asphalt roads, black as the night
Radiated heat, gathered from this boiling day
Sweat pouring down my face, into my eyes
Breath tearing at my chest, blood racing through veins
I have to outrun the night, to make it on time
To that quiet destination, a little room on the second story
With a chair, a desk, a shelf full of unread books
A yellow notepad, a pen that doesn't work so well
Arrowheads and unshaped stones, a bullet on the dresser
My grandpas old knife, a symbol of the ****** Mary
Your charms that you carelessly left behind
A small tiled room with a shower to stand under
Watch it drain away, dirt & soap, all of it
A face stares back at me, changed, distorted
A reflection in the mirror, a reflection that was me

The sky rushes by in spilt milk splendor
A fading memory of August, listening to the rain
Thunder in the mountains, echoes in empty spaces
Rocky tree lines, kissed by melting snow
The flow of time undefined by thought
Only a concept, only an illusion
The deeper meaning of silent meditation
In solitary places among the pines

Isn't it funny
How the day can be so sunny
The clouds just seem to run away
Wispy fingers of condensation
Receding into vapor, invisible
Coming and going like spring showers
As subtle as silence
Reforming themselves on their blue tapestry
To an orchestra of grasshoppers

White wings with brown circles
Plates of armor, black and orange
They discovered your weakness in the night
A ***** in your chitinous plate
All you sought was the shining fluorescent light
As you rested on the window sill
Now your wings flutter uselessly, a vain attempt
To fly away on morning breezes, all for naught
This cast iron tombstone, your final resting place
How dignified, you must think?
Dying on a piece of cheap lawn furniture
Don't worry; your broken wings will fly again
In the beaks of sparrows and crows

The pen shakes in my hand; to write these words
Sleep all day, sleep all night, doesn't matter
Haven't missed much, an empty conversation
Exchanged under this leaking roof in whispers
Slumping on the porch, watching it all drip down
Pinging off of empty brown bottles in the grass
Keeping time by your breathing, the rain pours down
As I hold your hand in mine, side by side
Puddles overflow, spilling their cloudy contents
Only to fill another puddle

I walk through this city blue
Writing books of unwritten verse
From simple, daily, conversations
Jotted down on cheap notepads
A couple walks together, same routine
Adopted from uncounted years, together
A cigarette hangs from cracked, chapped, lips
His cane taps out a rhythm, hobbling along
Sounds overlap, reverberate off cinder block walls
Voices blend into seamless harmony
A lonely man sits alone in his apartment
Surrounded by books stacked on creaking shelves
Waiting on a call, just to hear her voice
Cars come but never go, an endless procession
Ebbing & flowing, tides of gasoline & steel
Filling blank lines with mass produced ink
While I watch a game of chess in the park
Strategies countered by intuition, or luck
Blind to the outside world, they play on
Paint chips off walls as blurred faces walk by
Cracked concrete crumbles by paces & strides
Only to be overrun by sprouting, spiny, weeds
Crushed into pulp by careless, rushing, feet
Beats of a jazz quartet, pouring from an open door
Echoing down empty hallways, finding my ears by chance
I'll keep walking, through this blue city, until I find you once again
I wrote a letter to you, my love, to this day its not been sent

Oak tree in the middle of a field, the limbs are twisting, dancing,
but no wind is blowing.
Dry grass stands still, a flower disintegrates off its stalk,
colors fading, degrading.
My house used to stand here, when I was a child, now there is just a tree,
such green leaves...
All these memories, swept away in the night, but there is no wind blowing,
never has, really.
You stand next to me in my mind, but you're long gone, in reality,
decomposing.
A blurred outline of a face, something that was, but is no more,
never could have been, really.
I sit on the corner of this concrete slab, watching the clouds rush by,
shedding alkaline tears.
Birds ride the currents, gliding effortlessly, but the wind doesn't blow,
it never has.
Fence posts, dry as paper, they've stood under this harsh sun too long,
but this sun has never shown.
I'll sit here a while longer, under these rustling leaves,
sounds reminiscent of crashing waves.
You were a gust of wind, drying sweat & tears from my face
that feeling left with you, & the wind blows for me no longer.

She is the calmness of night in the burning sunlight
The rain falling from clouds that can't hold water
Salt of the ocean, stone pulled from wet earth,
after the downpour.
He is grass growing from broken ground in the field
The cedar tree pushing its limbs towards sunshine
Clear cold water, cascading down pitted limestone
walls, eroding the face.
Their love is the world, from which all life springs
The beating drum of nature & instinct, intertwined
Inorganic love, brittle as cast iron, rusting itself
away.

Rain runs down the windshield, blurring brake lights
Heavy drops concentrated into rivulets
Swept away by motorized arms on the glass
Red brick blurs by in the corner of my eye
Speeding by neon signs in the dark
A worn down face on a bar stool, just a glimpse
Of a tired lonely life, drowned in a bottle
When he wakes up in the morning, shivering under sheets
The chill of sweat soaking the mattress
The pounding in his head like hammers smashing bricks
The smell of last nights sickness, cloying & rancid
That spot where she used to lay her head is empty
That spot where she used to lay her body is cold
That spot where she used to touch his heart is burning
Burning like that cheap whiskey he sips with tap water
Burning like her pictures in the fireplace
Burning like the sickness in his stomach
Chained to a bottle & a memory long forgotten
Puddles keep forming, rearranging the dirt
But he's seen enough, for tonight & all other nights
Enough rain & enough snow, he wants sunshine
To sit & sweat, feel the enveloping warmth of summer
When he was young & everything was possible
No one could die & the world was so beautiful
But now all he sees is ugliness & futility
Now all he sees is her face

How the Dandelions wave on your neat little grave,
in a ghost town in Colorado.
Gutted cabins rotting into dirt, little piles
of split wood memories.
A rusting stove where you cooked their meals,
among the pines, surrounded by snow.
Now that iron is thin as paper, rusted holes,
inhabited by birds nests.
Your little headstone says you died of pneumonia,
at the age of thirty seven.
Two children you had, by a worthless drunk man,
who could barely hold it together.
One son took up a job down on ******* Creek,
searching for fools gold.
He died a young mans life, no chance to grow old,
gone at nineteen, never came out of that hole.
Another worked the railroad, running down those tracks,
until he heard a nations call.
Didn't stand a chance, shelled in those trenches of France,
too much mustard gas, didn't last long.
They're buried here, in this little aspen grove,
forgotten in their repose.
But those Dandelions still dance & wave,
among those lonely graves.
The Dandelions still grow, despite it all.