Endless War
 
The last seismic bomb 
exploded off the coast. 
The decimated masses 
scrambled through the slag, 
shuffled on their knees, 
cried in holy fires. 
But then a silence surged—
and surged, 
like pollen drifting high. 
The war had ceased 
at last. 
Under monsoon rains, 
the crowded skies 
were filled 
with undiluted laughter. 
People drank cheap wine, 
as the ozone breathed 
like God. 
Yet, some still yearned for static, 
and one more doleful strike; 
to obliterate the plains, 
to crack the world’s insides. 
But they’re just sluggish beasts, 
with perforated hearts—
they ache for constant war, 
with propaganda eyes.
 

Your Face on Social Media

I saw that picture you posted:
Your arm draped around some guy
At a concert I wasn’t at.
But the shimmer in your eye—
Was just shy of devotion.
Your smile: softer than a butterfly
For the one you had chosen.
I was reclining at home alone
Watching TV and petting the cat.
Suddenly, I had something to say.
So, I said aloud to no one at all,
Sounding like a sad-ass castaway:
“I wish to God there was someone
Who would look at me that way.”
My cat turned his head to stare
At myself. I said: “Not you buddy,
I was thinking of someone else.”

 

Karma
 
In the parched Mojave Desert,
I’m workin’ a summer job
on a railroad survey crew
in '64 when Larry taunts
and kills a rattler 
with our brush-cuttin’ axe,
disrespects it in death,
hurls it into the spines
of a 
Later, a train surprises Larry,
kills him standin’ between tracks
at the end of our lunch break 
minutes after I leave his side.
A butchered serpent,
a mangled body.
I ask myself, “Is this what 
they mean by karma?”
 
Seekin’ experiences to write about,
three years later I get dropped off
alone in L.A.’s squalid skid row
with coins, a razor, a spare pair
of underpants in my pocket,
two bucks hidden in my socks.
After a few days three buddies
and I hike from a rescue mission 
to a jungle next to train tracks,
a ravaged landscape where we dine 
on peppery Mulligan stew served 
in a rusty can offered by an old hobo 
missin’ teeth, wearin’ greasy overalls.
While we’re waitin’ for a boxcar
to fling ourselves aboard,
my buddies size up a wino
shufflin’, stumblin’, shoutin’ nonsense.
Willie says, “I could sure use his coat.
Mine’s ratty as hell. Let’s roll him.”
“Nahhh,” I say. “That’d be bad karma.”
He asks, “What’s karma?”
I answer, “Let me tell you a story.”      
 
 

“My Worse Addiction”
 
Looking for one more line,
even one more word,
just to make another poem,
as if metaphor
was my worse addiction
instead of the empty bottles
that treated me better
than all my old friends
who I haven’t heard from
in years.

Ultraviolet


I got the white girl blues
again Momma;
standing here skinny
under fat blue lights
faces all around me
shining in the rain,
smiling through the mud
as though it was a face-pack
they gift for free

and here’s me, singing my blues
like I was recording
someone else’s suicide note
on a dictaphone,
going over and over the same old
tunes, stripping my skin
like I’m tearing used paper

but feeling nothing,
Momma. No smiles
for your little girl to smile,
she just wants to run and hide,
drown her head in a bucket
till she finds new air
to breathe, new songs to sing.

Momma, I hate my life
but I still want to live.
I’m tired of the saloons, the songs
and the blues: it’s time
to get the hell out of Dodge.

Late Autumn on Paper

 
Between hands, paper and brush, between soul and flying birds
lie shadows drifting in silent transition

White crags, white winds, and figures in the water
splash foam against the boat sides, keeping a sober distance
from the drinkers aboard

Heartbeats beneath the waves ring clear and plain
late autumn, mountains loom high, the moon dwindles faint

Beneath damp heavy curtains, sleepers lost to day and night
bend their knees slightly, bracing against the core of dreams

In woods bathed in crescent moonlight, wanderers returning from revelry
hasten home with hats pressed tight, clinging to lingering warmth

Lost travellers shout across the stream
echoes mimic one another, like a man and his own inner self

Thick mist drips down bamboo leaves
leaning a staff by the water’s edge
weeping eases the ache of the soul, yet silence stretches boundlessly vast

No one may cross its realm, nor add to nor take from its essence
from beneath the hat spill endless lingering doubts

Doves spread wings and fly away
while crows plunge headlong to the ground, upsetting water flasks and gauges

Still some will climb higher peaks through pouring rain
drink deep the darkness of a whole year, and meet pure solitude

When trains rumble past the valley, verses flow unbidden from their lips
heedless of unseen listeners
or swarms of stars swirling before their eyes
Where history lies laid flat
place lamps, letters, and a few worn old garments

Such days are few, the fragrance of roses still lingers amid dust
while heavy frost and shadows settle upon dark treetops

 

JUNGLE IN THE CITY

 
In the jungle,
if you’re not sweating,
then you’re not living.
Unless you’re a lounge lizard.
Their blood is much too cold
to be bothered by steamy heat.

It’s after dark and the denizens are out.
There are jaguars,
chrome‑plated felines with bulging chest hairs,
parked sideways outside the more popular
of the neon caves.
They’re hungry. They’re famished even.
But they do their best not to look it.

The prey shows up
and they are dressed to be eaten,
in slinky little numbers
that cost too much and cover too little.
They strut like they own the night.
Too bad that the night owns everybody.

Inside the club, it’s wall to wall wildlife:
spiders as big as tabletops,
piranhas swimming below,
while vultures lean against the bar.
Everything is meat to them,
in various stages of decay.

And there are snakes everywhere -
some with scales, some doused in cologne,
many a forked tongue making deals
while fangs await their moment.

Vines and other stranglers
wrap around whatever’s soft,
whatever’s slow, whatever’s foolish enough
to show their money.
Everything crawls and bites and hustles.
It’s Gaia’s grand plan,
or maybe just Saturday night
after the clubs heat up.
Drawn by the lights,
animals show themselves.

Chalcis

The Asli Elif sits across the road
Flying her Turkish flag
In this Greek port

Where the tides turn
Back and forth
Over the years

Swirling and curling
Under the old bridge

In Chalcis
Where the infantry trains

The July sun bakes the pavements
And cicadas scream

Butterflies refuse to lift

Heat—so much heat in this island town
The sun frying the dry hills

Like a short-order cook

Beating down
On the fortress
Built by the Ottoman Empire
Over three centuries ago

The Asli Elif
Still flying its flag

True Romance

He laid a line on me.
Says his new woman
Is just so fucking good.
Beautiful babe with
A plump rounded ass.
He just met her last
Night and they hit it off
Right away. No sex yet
But he’s really looking
Forward to it. Maybe
Tonight in the midnight
Hour. Woman’s just a
Sports digest. Knows all
About all the pro games.
Unusual for a woman
But he likes that. Shows
Me a picture taken last
Night with his phone.
Take off all the makeup,
Ignore the long hair and
I swear that that woman
Was on my football team
In high school.