By One’s Own Hand

for Sundin Richards

We never met. I knew you only through the poems

that erupted from you like lightning from the muzzle

of a gun or that crackled and sizzled like smack when

it’s smoked. Now all that survives of you are disparate

shadows, shimmering echoes. Someone who knew you

better than me should have noticed you walking away,

collar turned up; should have stopped you before you

disappeared down a dark narrow street of dive bars

and drug houses and single room occupancy hotels.

Today would have been your forty-eighth birthday,

and Facebook, unaware  you’re dead, reminded me

to let you know I’m thinking about you. Sundin, I am.

Monster of God

It’s he who tears

holes in the sky,

confers the power

of life and death

on the disturbed

and the incautious,

murmurs approval

when a stray bullet

kills a 13-month-old

sleeping in a stroller,

squashes used souls

between his fingers, 

chalks the message

on walls and sidewalks

that if you don’t like

the fruit of heaven,

don’t shake the tree.

Coming to a Country Near You

My grandmother’s father

was a milkman, like Tevye

in Fiddler on the Roof.

He had a pair of horses

to pull his milk wagon. 

One horse was white,

my grandmother said,

and the other was red.

Russians took the horses

when they raided the village.

“They killed plenty Jews,”

my grandfather interjected

in his imperfect English.

My grandmother responded

the horses were beautiful.

Ophelia

My father does not understand a thing.

I would put your love inside of my mouth

If it meant silencing these doubts of mine.

You are everything.  Denmark is nothing.

How can you care less for love than for truth?

You God Damned fool.  Where should I draw the line?

Do you have to kill?  Must I go crazy?

We live so close to Germany.  And we

Live so close to the Ocean.  And I want

To be close, for you to crash like the sea

Against me.  I fear war.  And still I can’t

Avoid losing it. 

Why can’t you just . . .  be?

My father understands nothing. 

                        Nothing!

Denmark means nothing. 

                        You were everything.

You Don’t Have To Be a Dog

You don’t have to be a dog

To get ‘the dog shit’ beat outta ya.

That’s just a figure of speech.

Like “suck my nuts”.  Well, no.

Now that one depends on

Who’s talkin’ and who they

Talkin’ to.  So ya gotta be sorta

Careful how you use that one.

Might end up in a situation

You hadn’t really planned on.

It all has to do with articulation

And rancor of the vernacular.

A loud mouth and a loose word

Could get ya in a world of trouble.

Now, Jim Bob say he’ll never use

The dreaded ‘N’ word ever again.

He called that one woman a

‘Nympho’ and she, and her wife,

Both pulled foot long blades on him.

Luckily, he escaped with his dearly

Precious jewels.  Lesson learned.

Death Certificates

We all wait for our death certificates—

aging bodies, sagging arms, necks with wrinkles.

We drag our bodies around shopping malls

in all shapes, funny forms, walk

around in tennis shoes early mornings.

Don’t stretch out here too far.

Just get our groceries, see our grandchildren,

Lucky Charms, no witchcraft, but Jesus

finds our way home.

the square 

a gaggle of kids squawk and chirp into the night air, 

smoke weed and wave at cops shyly passing by. 

 

tired and bored i sit down with them. 

a pretty girl, with long legs and spider tattoos, 

sits next to me, puts her hand on my shoulder, 

 

says, wanna get high? 

i say, i’m always high. 

she says, cool man. i’m Tammy. 

i say, wanna get warm 

 

she smiles, nods, says, ya cool 

and lets me take her hand. 

 

we walk across the street and up the stairs to the Hotel Arcata. 

strip naked, crawl into bed, and blissfully fall asleep. 

 

dinner out 

my kid and i sit 

in a beer hall 

wait on a waitress 

to take an order. 

 

kid uses the men’s room 

that’s a new experience 

transitioning 

i have to check it first 

to make sure it’s safe 

cuz shit happens in Arcata 

if you don’t how to act 

or where to go after dark. 

 

i tip the waitress big 

with money i borrowed 

from a dead-end 401k 

and she sneaks us 

into a live streaming 

of a local band. 

 

my kid knows the bass player, 

which makes sense. 

my kid seems to 

know everyone in Arcata. 

 

we get the boot 

after hanging around too long 

and walk outside, 

back into the cold night air 

where our breath lingers 

long into the night 

 

and Tammy walks up 

saying, hey baby it’s awful 

cold. 

 

 

eating a sandwich in a bar at a distance 

i wander into a dimly lit bar 

order a double diet and bourbon 

Ian places a tumbler in front of me 

10 bucks 

 

okay 

want something to eat? 

 

i order a roast beef sandwich 

and a side of tatter-tots 

 

Ian clears a spot 

on the other side of the bar 

sprays it down with 

disinfectant 

says, here you go 

 

Krystal Something 

brings a plate, sets it 

in front of me 

asks where i am from 

i say the Hotel Arcata 

she asks if i’m passing 

through 

 

i don’t know, i say 

i just don’t 

Winter’s Bone

If she actually had a picture

in the high school yearbook,

it would have shown a tall,

maybe one hundred pound,

flat chested girl with a half dozen

clearly visible homemade tattoos

suggesting a like amount of ink

in places no one was ever likely to

see this side of an autopsy table.

Where her full name and activities

should have been listed would be

a single phrase in quotes, “Bones”.

Activities: None

Awards: None

Voted most likely to die before

the age of 30 of an overdose.

Unanimously.

Ten years later she is still kicking,

barely, though, if anything, she’d

lost weight on her special Organ

Failure Diet that ages one double time,

guarantees hair loss and sallow,

sagging, discolored skin.

She won’t smile since she lost

most of her teeth, only opens

her mouth to insert cigarette,

light, inhale, exhale, and repeat when

necessary. 

She still hangs by the old

school as that is where her best

customers/ suppliers hang. 

Might even have graduated if she’s

Actually, gone to class as they were

putting everyone through as long as

their names appeared on an attendance

sheet in order to score more state aid. 

Everyone is hooked on something

these days.

from some other century

the rain hitting the

roof feels like how

she used to move

her tongue down

your spine

she had the greenest

eyes you had ever

seen

smoked her cigarettes

like some queen from

some other century

she always promised

she would come see

you long before the

sad inevitable end

she died in the arms

of her other lover

the needle still

dangling

heroin said i do

before i ever

got the chance

Heaven Is A Dive Bar In Tucson   

Heaven is a dive bar in Tucson,

just past the Pac’em in Steakhouse on Drachman, once  called Miracle Mile, the street name was changed, a place where nobody knows your name.

Neon odor of a whiskey jukebox, scratching memories of the 70’s 

on warped 45’s, no way to tell what song you choose, there’s no labels for the selections, bar stools with exhausted foam padding, has the ass impression on the seat, of the last person who sat there, there’s the one beer sign, with the light that flickers, resonating a low hum refusing to die, an outdated beer slogan ‘If you’ve got the time we’ve got the beer” advertising a brand the bar doesn’t serve, red vinyl booths in a horseshoe shape, placed around tables with matchbooks under the legs to keep them level, a single bulb hangs from an electric cord, a fake plastic cover made to look like stained glass, above a pool table with a once green felt top, 

now stained from spilled drinks, and burns from cigarettes left too long between shots, pool cues made from crooked trees, no need to chalk up, there’s no tip on the end, the bathroom doors have no locks, the mirrors are broken and no paper towels or blower, one of the two urinals is covered in plastic, with an”Out of Order” sign, that is ignored and gets pissed in anyway, I don’t remember there ever being a toilet seat, but there is a condom machine, the dingy floor made up of twelve by twelve mismatched and different colored tile, where drunks and defeated fighters have fallen,

as well as an occasional glass, I’m sure it  hasn’t been mopped in years, cheeseburgers and grilled cheese the only items on the menu, the bartender usually says they’re out of what you want, but they have the same beer on tap they’ve had for years,

pictures of possibly everyone whose shadow has graced the doorway, are pasted on the walls,

mine is there somewhere, I’ve never checked to see, I was probably drunk at the time, God lives on the premises, in a room near the front door, always with a smile as  your blessing, I’d invite you to come on by for a beer or two, you might get branded with a likeness of God,

but Heaven is closed, I’m sorry to say, it had a good run, maybe I’ll look for a dive bar in hell.

TASTE

I could sense the

evening slipping

into my glass

like a diamond

ring onto a

slender finger,

like our lives

forever slipping

away from

the light:

I lifted the glass

and drank

deep and could

taste the

breath of a

neglected

poet

perched on the

words of a

promise,

I drained the

glass and knew

that I had

known of the

end from

the

beginning,

the bitterest

of tastes.