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.

Big Deal

A hundred years from now
It might seem as if
You had never been.
Same as with all the others
Who shot their wad at the wall
And found it didn’t stick.

You can’t bet on a future
You will never see.
What you do now
Is what matters,
Even if it’s only a sneeze,

Instead of that big wind
You thought you would cause,
One that would uproot trees,
And help you leave
A permanent scar
Where the supermarket
Used to be.

Circle

A formation of people in a circular square.
I am one of them.
Trapped by this circle, unable to get out.
Like the others, I was born blind.
A layer of grey mist covers my eyes.
Birds in the forest, in the thick fog, are terrified by this corpse-covered circle,
Screaming again and again.
People have died at different spots in the circular square.
They were all worn to death.
But I am full of hope.
I can feel the magnificent scene of blooming flowers in the distance.
People all believe
That the circle represents cycle.
But I feel that this circle
Can carry me and fly,
Fly into the spring scenery not far away.

圆
圆形方阵里的队伍，
我是队伍的一员，
被这圆困得出不去，
我和其他人一样天生的是眼盲，
眼珠被蒙上一层灰雾，
林中鸟儿在大雾里被这覆盖尸体的圆吓得连连惊叫，
有人死在圆形方阵的不同地点，
他们都是被熬死的，

而我充满了希望，
我能感受到远方来自鲜花盛开的盛景，
人们都以为，
圆代表了循环。
而我觉得这个圆，
可以载着我飞，
飞到不远处的春天的景象里。

AFTER READING DESCARTES

 
Is that Buster Keaton
or could it be a rhinoceros?
And am I breathing heavily
or are these really convolutions?
It feels like I’m riding in from the north
but I could just as easily
be crawling up from the south.
So what am I?
Shaped by centuries
or merely the shreds of a discarded
cardboard box?

Do I sip coffee
and look out on a violent world?
Or soar and dip like a gull?
And I’m in my parlor aren’t I?
So why do I hurt like
I’m sore and bleeding in some alleyway?
My eyes are brown surely.
And yet some are green.
Are those stars in the sky
or are they more like scars?
I live in a world
where there are no good answers.
Not even the questions
are up to the job.