THE CHEERY LOOKIN DUDE AT THE GAS STATION 

you got wife…
apartment…
smoke…

he was saying
as I sat at 
the picnic table
looking forlorn
and even in
broken english
I could realize
how 
ungrateful a bastard
I was


BIG

I’m big now
I keep forgetting

catch a glance of my reflection
good Lord!
what am I doing in Dairy Queen?

women just look away
it’s depressing

who cares I think
and I eat like a thirteen year old

but there’s no metabolism anymore
I’m too damn big-

sitting here having a fit
cause some of my Reese’s chunks
fell off my sundae

BEST-LAID PLANS


Having lunch with my mom at the Riverdale Diner, NYC,
I wore my Agnostic Front T-shirt, red braces, and boots.
In time, American skinheads adopted their own style
different from Brits. Lots of tattooed muscles.
Just in time for the ‘80s skinhead/bonehead schism.

At the time, I was 16. A teenage blond girl about my age
approached me at the counter. She wanted me to take
her to a CBGBs Hardcore Matinee. Girl needed someone
to escort her through the testosterone maze.

But I was moving to San Diego in a few days! Too bad,
so sad. My future wife and I parted before I could grow
my hair long, do beer bong hits in college, get married
and have kids, become a well-intentioned, middle class
member of the community. Wonder where she is now?

Yeah, that’s the worst thing that ever happened to me.
As I sit here and type and wait for my Deluxe Quarter
Pounder to be delivered. Oh well, at least I don’t have
to worry about A.A. sponsors anymore. I took a different
route to recovery. I’ll smoke a Rocky Patel on the patio
later. Raise a Coke Zero to the one who got away!

Cruel Truth

Still in his usual drunken state,
Marvin realized he had forgotten
To pick up the Hello Kitty cup for
His wife's birthday.  So, inventive,
He tried the next best thing.
He took a plain coffee cup from
The cupboard and with a marker
Wrote on it the best he could.
It didn't quite get the reaction
That he'd hoped for.  Somehow,
Howdy Bitch didn't quite make it
And got his drunken ass kicked 
Out the house.  It's a cruel truth
That you can't please everyone.
Also a cruel truth that his own dog
Won't even share the old blanket
In the dog house on a cold night.

four voices at armageddon

coyote breaths are in

the sewers – scrambled

                        from plains

                        of burning kisses,

                        reticent

and

hairy. the

dress comes down

           her

legs as far as the sky and

                                      the

sky has mastered

animal sounds and made

                                   scorpions dance

to keep from sleeping

                        in the sand:

                        to keep their

venom ready

as a fire hose: to

float

        on the egg masses of frogs

        who’ve hopped away

after

clutching together for days.

 

i asked

the waitress about boiling leather shoes

when trees

           are stripped of color and

                                                 too

                                                 rooted to fly. i

asked

her about spinning toys that

                                   keep no one happy

and lead soldiers

                that warp and poison

                small minds but,

she patted my hand

and crawled away.

 

“goddamnit.

the killing is so perfunctory it’s

impossible

not to wet the bed. turn on

                                    the goddamn tv.

mute the sounds in the kitchen

and

       i’ll eat

like a hurricane.

dogs are

tasting

            better

            every

            day

without much cooking.

and the

        trees

sag leafless

in the wettest sun.

save some of that

cement for your house.

                              pile it.

and goddamnit, don’t

talk.”

 

minutes are stagnant

like stained glass

though they seem to mean

so much that dust

collected in the corner

is simply glue that won’t

brake movement anymore:

a religion without a story:

a crystal ball turned to

salt on a bird’s tail. 

GREED SONG


Greed pushes me down the street, 
whispering its litany of cheap needs in my ear. 

But what am I hoping for here in this life
when I already have so much? 

I address the trees, but they refuse to answer, 
not knowing enough about dreams to even comment. 

Even the pigeons and squirrels are silent, 
assessing me as they do from the branches above. 

Optilurza

Four in the morning.
Lightning slithers
through  pencil-gray clouds.
 
Across the red brick courtyard
a guy in a white hardhat,
and an orange safety vest
spreads plastic sheets
over an oversize window
where a tv flickers.
 
Silent, a UFO glides through
the clouds. Will, my Hopi bro
says in his distinctive
way, “Yeaaaah.”
 
He can’t see,
but knows aliens are out there,
both of us trapped in our
Procrustean beds in
that placeless place,
Optilurza Infirmary,
with our swollen, broken legs
on our backs unable to move.
 
Soon they’ll come to drain
our blood away, but we
will float out of our
busted-up bodies, escape,
and fly away to Oraibi,
that place on the mesa
far from here
we both yearn for
where Will’s family feeds
us sweetcakes.
There will be laughter.
 
“Yeaaah,” Will says.
The Kachinas will come up
out of the earth to take us to
the next world.

every other sunset


an old piano collecting
dust

like the brain on
a sunday evening

call an old friend
in germany

hope that she still
loves you

hell, even still thinks
of you will suffice

avoid the news

figure out which
organ to sell to
afford the rent
and gas for the
car

minor surgery is
only for the ones
that happen to
others

anxiety dictates
that the end of
the world is
every other
sunset

someone put
their baby in
the trash

even the educated
don't trust leaving
them at the fire
station

"Sitting on the Toilet"

The ground groaning with all
our political talk.

Earthquakes straining with all
our wars against walls.

Volcanoes bulging with all
our stockpiling of nuclear weapons.

Lucifer laughing with all
our breeding a race of non-believing.

Sitting on the toilet with all
our corks out of reach.

Sending Prayers


The prayers were sent
across air and water,
from mind to mind,
and soul to soul.

What were they?
These thoughts?
These words
said in silence?

A bit of hope.
A bit of need.
Perhaps blasphemy.
Perhaps important.

They are gone now,
to wherever they go.
Breaths.
Twitches of lips
and tongue,
Aspirations of mind
and soul.

The heart has its say.
You know that it will.
Off, off, on their journey
they go,

To that place
or no place
where they must
arrive.

Garden

 
The live bird-of-paradise tree blooms
beside the young juniper on the south side
of our yard by the cinderblock wall,

whereas the dead bird-of-paradise branches
are brown, droopy, and leafless
on the dead tree beside the picket fence—

as if someone, maybe God, were illustrating
a lesson for me when I happened to
come out to the back this morning

while it’s still cool enough to sit and
look around, find something stimulating
for the mind locked inside a body

that’s continuously aging
as the mind tries to remain alert
to the beauties life exhibits, the sun

rising as it does each morning
and I, along for the ride, realizing
I won’t be able to continue rising

forever—“for ever”—a concept
my body has quietly assumed since birth
even though knowing there’s no way

it can be true, true only for as long
as I’m around to believe it,
just as earth and the universe it

rotates and glows inside of
will continue only
for as long as I can see it.