Burger King

There's this guy
at my apartment complex
who walks to his fast-food job
every single day.

He wears
the same shirt,
the same pants,
the same backpack,
the same pair of headphones,
and always has
the same blank expression
on his face.

And every time I see him,
I can't help but wonder
if he's just dedicated
or completely insane.

Reflections.


Silvery opulence
amidst
Snow clad hours
My forever blue
Anatomy of love
A golden rose
Bow tied piano scape
Scary as love
Around wintry snowflakes
He embalms my soul
Autumnal palsy
His goodness gracious
Poignant peak
I couldn't summon my notes
Momentum reflections
Necessary
To be written down
For me
When Autumn comes
I will gather
My snowing pal
And
I will ride these
Paper towns
With my oceanic wetness.

1981


Whatever happened to gliding down the Slip ‘N
Slide or getting a toasted almond bar from the
white uniformed Good Humor man? Stickball bat set 
aside, we flipped baseball cards, and I won a tall
stack. Then lost it to a random flip, an early
gambling addiction. We played Ms. Pac-Man at the
pizza parlor; she ate the pellets hungrily. One
kid had a quarter on a string like Buster Keaton
when he cheated the gas meter. The sci-fi film
Escape from New York came out; crime was real in
the Bronx. Our house got robbed when a kid squeezed
through a narrow basement window. The teenage
neighbor saw and chased the burglars down the street
with a baseball bat, but all my mother’s jewelry was
gone. She cried. AC/DC’s 1980 album
Back in Black still tore up the airwaves. Poor Bon
Scott died a grim death, but Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ‘n’
Roll” was playing everywhere on WPLJ.
Black leather clad Joan was my first crush. When 1982
rolled around, I discovered WNYU, punk and
new wave music, plus Greenwich Village, Bleecker
Bob’s Records, and a one-dollar subway token ride
to anywhere worth going. But 1981 left an
indelible mark on me like a tattoo or scar.  

RAFI 21

in me is an abandoned housing project
in me a million unlived lives
each in their respective cell
wasted trying to escape
taunted by the shoes on telephone wires
a graduation from the hood
without you
my heart is a ghetto
without you
I am a ghetto

RAFI 22

I miss you
a love as strong as an oak tree
I took you for granted
and got lost in your curls
you are so much beauty
you remind me of myself when I was free
you remind me of my life on my own
before I met you

“on a scale of 1-10 how are you feeling?” 

 
disconnected—my  
body remains on the ground,  
my head in the cloud

Meditation During the Evacuation During the Complex Forest Fire in the Santa Cruz Mountains During the Pandemic


Self-distance other-distance
shelter in place evacuate the shelter
relocate unreal-estate
allow-location-access denied
displace re-place no space
somebody else’s space
everywhere is anywhere is nowhere
for forty years wandering
then a home for forty years
home is now wandering
and the weariness of searching
the searching worn
and wildflowers wildfires
fire-flowers blossoms
of lightning on earth
we not looking upward
afraid to look inward
not seeing forward
past the past
not burying embers of fear
but exposing embers of sorrow
turning embers of lament
tamping the embers of uncertainty
under borrowed boots
from under masks
in the cool air we will breathe

How To Burn Memories Using A Pocket Torch 


You leave. A numb tingling
transforms its throbbing
into a headache. The pain 
crawls across my skull.

It freezes for a while, forms
a chrysalis and during
the after hours it flies out -
a noir butterfly, death-wish. 

I am outside a tent, camping again,
my father somewhere 
present and absent, the stretch of land
quiet and deserted, wondering
why meteor shower happens
next to never where I live.
You leave. I light up a pocket torch
and turn every memory to charcoal.

Photos on the Phone

He wakes up
And notices 
That he has
A message
From Google,
Google is
Asking him
If he wants to
Turn back to
A moment
Five years ago,
He says yes
And then a photo
Of the house he
Used to live in
With her
Pops up,
This isn’t the first
Low blow
From Google.

The Past

The past can be a problem
you think you've made your
peace with it.

Then it sneaks up behind
you, and beats your brain.

Taking you back twenty, or
thirty years, and it hurts
just as much now as it
did then.

On the other hand, the good
times can seem close enough
to reach out, and touch.

I suppose I'm just getting
old.
But the past made me the
person I am now.

For better or worse

Mustache

There are certain things a cowboy has that he cherishes very much.
His saddle chaps, maybe a pair of homemade spurs,
Or a nice set or romal reigns and such.
No doubt he cherishes his horse.
And don’t forget his mustache, of course!
It’s big and bold.
He started growing it when he was about 13 years old.
He only cut off once, when he accidentally caught it on fire.
He grew it back, as fast as he could,
Cause his upper lip looked like a fence with no wire.
It started out pretty thin,
As the years past, it darkened up and filled in.
He loved his mustache a lot, it’s a part of him.
If he ever lost it, his days would be pretty grim.
He’s getting older now, and it’s even bigger, and mostly grey.
It’s one of the best ones around, most people would say.
It’s no doubt how he landed his pretty wife.
Boy, if I had a mustache like that,
It sure would improve my quality of life.
Any cowboy worth his salt knows,
If you want to live the high life,
And get the chicks,
You gotta have a mustache below your nose!