I Wish

I wish I could
go back in 
time, to when 
my rickety
self esteem 
didn't come from 
strangers liking my 
poems, but from 
knowing that I'd
done right by a
woman I loved,
really loved, and
who had loved
me for 18 long
years.

But, unfortunately
we can't turn back
time.

I guess that a lot 
of people have
regrets, and wish
that they could do
things differently.

But, the constant
backwards, and
forwards of time
would cause that
much paradoxical
activity that the
world would implode.

Still, I wish. As most
of us must.

"Stuck-Up"

Many of them
don't know
when they're fooling
themselves
thinking they're more
than they are
so full of it
staring in the mirror

imagining people wanting
to be like them
strutting on the street
along the beach
taking a bow
on the stage of vanity

do they realize
the monster inside
the blind ego
ass in the air
smelling like they're
too good to wipe

what a fall is coming
in broad daylight
in front of everyone
a nightmare
they cannot awake from.

Cultural Diversity
 
She herds six kids ranging in
age from a few months to maybe 
eight years old, into CVS store.
One kid is half Asian, two others 
different shades of black, one appears
mostly white but vaguely Hispanic,
and a couple who could only be described
as mutts.  All of them hers. 
Is paying cash, in small change, pennies, 
nickels and dimes, for Home Pregnancy
Kit.  “Don’t know why I bother.”
She says, “I know how this ends.”

Night Thoughts

I can’t bring myself to read the news anymore or even watch it on TV. There are just so many unidentified dead men with my face, just so many couples in their late thirties having trouble making a baby. Meanwhile, a small band of starving deer stagger out of the snowbound woods in search of help, but help has been repealed. Like the Oxford comma or the use of voiceover in film, the whole thing is controversial. And although it’s day, night thoughts are stuck in my head, and the only immediate alternative may be to cut my head off.

A Brave Face

I feel so fucking tired,
I've been putting on
a brave face for so
fucking long.

My life has stalled,
I wait every day til
4 'O' Clock, or so,
when I start drinking.
That's all I do, wait,
and drink.
I don't know what to do.

No way am I going to
listen to a smug, sexless
counsellor trying to tell
me what I should be doing
with my life.

Those idiots don't know
a thing about me, or my
life, they never, ever will.

They've probably smoked
a few spliffs at University,
have they known smack
withdrawal ?
Have they known the alkies
feeling of needing an eye
opener as soon as they
wake up ?
Have they fuck ! Phonies !
Phonies, and fakes !

I'll die before I'll prostate
myself before any of those
middle class fakers.

I have tried, believe me
I've tried.

They were useless, worse
than useless.
Thy haven't got a fuckin'
Scooby.
I felt worse after their kind
of false concern, and total
bullshit idea of empathy.

I feel so fucking tired,
but nobody knows me
better than me.
I'll sort it out, myself,
and if I don't ?
Well, it's alright Ma,
it's life, and life only.

Crazy-eyes
 
The last time I saw Crazy-eyes Doris,
She was on the top of the cab of a mac truck
Wailing away with a # 4 heavy duty tie down chain
Busting out windows trying to get at the driver.
How she held on while it sped down the highway in
A frantic defensive serpentine course I have no idea.
Her topside skill was like a bull rider on a raging beast.
An epic showing of such determination, such tenacity.
The trucker’s CB echoed with pleadings for help,
Frantic prayers to the Big Dispatcher in the sky.
And still, Crazy-eyes Doris continued in her fury
As the semi continued on its terror ridden path.
Those that, in awe, witnessed this exhibition
Still tell the tale to this day.  And agree that
One must not, under any circumstance, skip out 
On their tab at Ron’s Wayside Truck Stop Diner.
Especially since Ron has the good Samaritan policy,
Good man that he is, of hiring the recently released
(or, wandered over) from the local mental initiation.  
 
 
 
 
Booze Talk
 
His speech was a bit slurred
And he drooled a little.
“Yo”, he said, “There’s more
Than one way to skin a cat.
But who wants a skinless cat?
Body’d be all wet and tacky,
Guts probably hangin’ out.
And flies, yeah, buncha flies.”
Words of wisdom.  He’s nuts.
Only time he talks is when
He gets liquored up or high.
He used to be the ‘cool cat’,
Jazz man, fast car, hot babes,
Stylish threads, pompadour.
Used to really wail on that sax.
Used to, now, it’s all ‘used to’.
Nothin’ dramatic, just old age
Slowly slipped up on him
And he wasn’t ready for it.
So old, alone, neglected,
He spends his days and nights
Boozed up or high talkin’ 
Crazy stuff when he does talk.
We let him hang around.
Yeah, it’s sad.  But The really
Sad part is that, someday, 
This might be me.

Listening to Bulerias de la Nina Mora
 
The most important thing in flamenco 
is passion. —Sara Baras
 
You could swear
The guitarist has birds for hands:
The flashing fingers take flight
Across the fretboard
Before her warbling wail
Breaks in—
A lamentation of need
As urgent as any animal.
The guttural cry 
Is spectacular
And then the rhythmic claps
As Rodrigo slaps the strings.
You are no gypsy,
You thought yourself inflammable.
But now your blood begins to sing
Stronger than caffeine in coffee
As you stifle a strangled shout—
Suddenly remembering 
That the soul is a burning coal
No amount of heel stomps
Can stamp out.

braille for fellow madmen  

more often than not 
each synapse is 
a demon’s whip crack  
my brain lashed 
over & over 
throbbing bloody welts
rising against my skull

the dirt coroners 

one day the maggots 
will carry out yr autopsy 
their final conclusion 
a string of belches

THESE 4 WALLS
These four walls have closed in for 
Me of late, keeping me captive as we
Enter yet another period of lockdown.
Word has come down that we shouldn’t
Even leave our homes but for some it’s
Becoming so damn difficult.  We, who
Work the kind of job that keeps us all
Going, often live in single rooms and 
Are often alone and it’s hard as I wake
Every morning knowing the only voice
I will hear all day is whoever is on
My radio as I sit here struggling with
These words as my 4 walls close in.

This Tiny Peace

I sit at my window,
In this tiny piece
Of the world,
Content with the scenery,
In no hurry at all,
No need to go fast,
Alright to go slow.
This is my portion,
In this time and place,
To have time to consider,
And contemplate...
The plan to create 
A new world to rule,
Is progressing at light speed,
With no need to fool,
The minions at large,
Signed on for the ride,
But once they consider,
And realize their plight,
They will no longer be able
To think for themselves,
Or turn back the tide.
In the end there’s no worries.
This too will pass,
The cyber connection,
Not meant to last.