My Grief 

I never cared to die
while blue skies taunted
my grief while reading 
a book in spring about 
autumn leaves. It is not 
true. I did not house such
thoughts. In this city
it makes no sense. Maybe
in the mountains or near 
the sea. But never in this 
place I call home. If it 
pleases you, I could die 
in a dream. If you must 
know, I want to live, and 
I want to be loved; even 
if this love only lasts till 
spring, the mother of all 
seasons. I want to live. 
I want to scream. I want 
my grief to end in spring. 
For the first time in my life, 
I want to see the light. 
I want to make it mine.

Chronicle of a Dead Planet

a chronicle of Mars
baked into the dark side
of a crater
the size of Texas

statue of a centurion
guarding a dead
planet after millions
of years; nobody
told him the war
was over

listen to the news
and you soon
realize it’s easier
to sell doom
than hope and light

and Raquel Welch only shows
up in a fur
bikini once upon
the good
old days

--------------------------------------
Mars Is the New Mars

we can see by the light
of a setting sun
that point where the crater
meets the glare,
far end of a one point
perspective, a past
history that doesn’t end well

in some cinematic universe far,
far away a land exists
of destinies fulfilled without effort
or hardship or consequences,
and every flesh wound
heals before it began, every body
blow lands like a marshmallow,
every dead hero is resurrected
by a plot twist
at the end of the movie

here on dry land
we have handguns that shoot
real bullets to your brain
and sometimes they don’t kill
you but maybe worse you wake
up brain damaged and blind;

goodies and syringes and
hotties popping bottles
seem so good until
they go in the wrong way,
where rebates and refunds
and re-dos
lay far out of reach in
space
and time

“the grass was Lao and the road a disaster.” Tim Page

as when the doctor shined a penlight
in her, nobody’s-home-eyes, missing
the room inside, tripped out on acid,
paper peeling from the walls, melting
paisleys dissolving into blood puddles
stitched into a rug, a black hole dead
center taking it all in, the poster of
Vanessa Redgrave from Blow Up among
the last images to go, along with the mixed
doubles tennis playing mimes, made up
for a game of murder and clay court passion
like the suicide drivers in the open car
headed for a Mulholland Drive of the mind
where the dead wake up and go on living
lip synching Roy Orbison duende,
a senseless sudade in foreign tongues,
never quite right, everything funneling
deeper into the worst kind of darkness,
night driving blind, all the rules of the road
suspended except the ones that say, “Go
further into the tunnel that has no light at the end.”

DISTINCTIONS

I don’t know which paintings hanging in the halls
Of the museum in the park are priceless and which are
Worthless copies.
Oil on canvas, acrylic on wood.
I don’t know what keeps the driving rain from christening the
Valleys
Of a thirsty San Diego fall.
The dry land cracks beneath the flawless azure sky.
I don’t know the difference between the clock counting the
Seconds
In the armoire of your heart and the timer that ticks at the end of
The fuse.
Gunpowder on the secondhand.
Blood on the rope.

Glass

 
There’s so much of the outside world
plastered to the warped glass,
it’s nearly impossible to see outside
the dilapidated trailer these days.

She can almost remember a time when
she would somewhat regularly
get up and wipe a moistened rag
across the slick, see-through surface.

That time seems almost mythical
in its unfathomable distance,
and it almost makes her want to laugh,
or maybe cry; they’re pretty much
the same thing in a place like this.

Not only can she not see out,
the world cannot come in,
and on many days, for that she’s grateful,
as she figures no one deserves to be privy
to all that her life has failed to become.

Her world is now the dusky haze
of a time that rejects time,
everything an insubstantial muted gray
culminating in nothing more
than the inevitable more nothing.

But on this today, in no perceivable way
different than all the other todays,
something pokes through just right,
and she fishes the moldering dishrag
from the plastic kitchen basin,
a relic from a distant time
when clean dishes were a part of life,

she gets the rag and wets the fraying fibers
and reconnects with a lost life
that has always been waiting there for her
on the other side of the glass.

"Last Shot"

I fire my last shot
at the mirror
hoping I will stop
waking up
in the same world
darkness
same sudden flashes
exploding
pit bombs of war
never ceasing
shot after shot
in the shortness of life
realizing
all I can do is
paint the mirror black
with acrylic paint
and white glue
holding the broken pieces
in place so they won't fall
while I fall
asleep
in dreams of mercy.

Jim's Tale

It didn't seem right Jim sashaying about
With a coon tail hangin' out his ass and
It didn't seem right he had the seat of
His britches all ripped out to where you
Could see the eyeball tattooed on each
Cheek of his ass so he'd be able to see
Anyone sneakin' up on his behind from
Behind...just a prison thing.  Lord knows
There had to be quite a tale with the tail.

Now see, Jim's a wild one.  He tells it had
To do with a woman he met near Amarillo
Knawin' on an armadillo in the north part
Of Texas.  And ya know, ya gotta be careful
With those Texas women.  They can be just
Sweet as sugar and still kick your ass like a
Rough tough wrangler or one of those Tex
Rangers what don't take no shit or Shinola
And conversation is guaranteed to be one
Sided with a lot of 'Yes, sir" and "No, sir"
Before that pistol slams upside your head.

Jim says he got liquored up on firewater on
A trail ride along the Alamito and fell out
With some locals who didn't take kindly to
His words about their gals, "Y'all's fat girls
Don't stink half as bad as I thought they
Would."  Simple words from a simple mind.

But the kicker was when granny, in a violent
Near-death hacking spell, coughed out her
Upper choppers and Jim, being thoughtful,
While thoughtlessly scratching his privates,
Says to her, "Ma'am, I think you'd like to put
this in your mouth."

Enough said, Jim's kind words were taken
The wrong way so he got the beating and
Embarrassment of his (already) miserable
Life.  Granny, herself, shoved that coon into
Place and Jim made directly for home.  His
Search now is for both a veterinarian and
An MD.  Jim's not sure how well that coon
Is doin' up his butt.

Dirty Joe
This is for you
wallowing through the streets 
when I was strung out
and you were too
we collapsed together
in the halfway house
clutching some mad dream
thought it would never end 
and we’d be clutching through eternity
now you're dead
I’ve got a bum hip
lingering covid
and a dead-end job
the halfway house
boarded up

This is me 7:49am
Tuesday morning
Broadway 
twenty-four degrees 
holding on to the railing
of twenty years ago 
afraid I'll slip and fall
into the who I am now

Or Else

 
All news arrives
from afar—or else.

We care less and
less—or else.

What else can we do,
if not to care？

Or else, we may deaden our hearts,
and pretend we heard nothing.

You’d better listen,
or else.

A sound touches the bell
inside our ears.

We close our eyes
to listen. Or else.

SEVENTIES SOLILOQUY


Long-hooded Cadillacs cruise through Bronx
streets. Their crumple zones crush VW
Bugs. Premeditated auto murder? Kids play
basketball with netless hoops. Stationery
stores sell action figures. Incredible Hulk’s
days are numbered. Pull Stretch Armstrong’s
limbs to the limit. Set off firecrackers, cherry
bombs and snakes. Remember P.S. 81 cafeteria
sporks and tater tots? Schoolyard Double Dutch
and freeze tag during recess? Good Humor
man sneaks a butt while children encircle mini
pugilists and yell FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!
(Yo mamma’s got a pegleg with a kickstand.
Yo mamma’s got an afro with a chinstrap.)
View sci-fi blockbuster Star Wars in ’77.
Roger Corman’s drive-in movie empire declines
out in L.A., beyond dusty plains and ox skull
prairies. As seen on TV, cowboys still stick it
to Indians. Saturday morning cartoons look
great paired with Lucky Charms sugar shakes.
Hong Kong Phooey, stuck inside the file cabinet
again. “Mean” Joe Greene throws a jersey
for a Coke. Find Playboy in bushes. Bionic Man
and Woman sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
Moustache wearing father with corduroy pants
and Southern Comfort breath is back
from Dragon Lady Saigon. Feed local racoons
Froot Loops, as they line up like monks for alms.
Krazy Kat brings entrail offerings. Listen
to WNYU under the covers. Disco Sucks! Tune
out static as childhood fades away.