and so as not to dis the etiquette of my new found tribe i too partook of the shit on a shingle entrée… Saturday night with nothing to do i strolled down two quarter blocks on Virgil Avenue and turned left to order ginger ale from the one the guys called Mama San we were all AA students but the boys chose to ditch school 5 days a week they talked about the evils of malt liquor as they drank down their rye sharing army stories of the war in Viet Nam they hazed me into conversation but all i could muster was having read about Iran/Contra in current events for my 9th grade dissertation i called Susi over and asked for the check slipping off the bar stool they executed a synchronous head turn im not a drill sergeant i thought to myself i wiped my space dry with my over stretched sleeve and the guy with a Teamster’s Cap circa 73’ offered a story about Buffalo Springfield my stoic face gave me away and two old timers said i was a kid i sat back up and ordered Red Bull on the rocks knowing it would be a battle the Rolodex of my mind spun and whirred i lightly joked about Neil Young and Crazy Horse clarifying i got their CD from Target the soldiers they all had a chuckle detonating the wrinkles of suffering ingrained on their face i rammed through their barrier with my praise of Stevie Ray Vaughn and i wrapped up my ambush with a very harrowing rendition of Fortunate Son and as the cigarette smoke lifted their silhouettes shifted to a comfortable slump and they ordered some food so the party could start
East Hollywood
2 steps
drift to sleep
under the hazy sky
blue cowboy boots
laying down in my truck
Twinkie crumbs
on the corners of my mouth
my left braid coming undone
the memory comes in chunks
hope to sleep
under a halogen light
no shoes or socks
stuffed into the couch
kale smoothie
not on my tongue
my mane’s too tame
the thoughts torn asunder
one tear at a time
the curtain flaps in the clumsy breeze
my heart beats down
the coolness of the aging day
appears to release the hope evading me
it is alright now
i accept what came and went
in the treks of time today
my face has become stronger
the longing has receded like the curtain
in that room where history is made
and played out in my head
one tear at the time
the wind at 6 a.m.
i guess now i have to haul
ass on my own. my dog, my tree,
my home, my life. all put away,
in the chambers of my heart.
damn it woman. how can it go on?
i chase your scent, the ring in your
sound. the laugh in the rain, the pound
in your heart. and there i stand.
though broken i am not. i never said anything
to this thought. but you who made me whole,
when i said i could no more. you made me move.
in a direction in front of me.
the wind walks on rice paper. no trail of
you i see. footsteps in the river of
forgiveness washing me free, today and forever.
this is what you left for me.
as i sit alone in this bed of
my own humanity. i feel your touch of love
and there is a 6 a.m. in every hour. you are
in the sun, the moon, the stars, the fog.
you are in the laughter of my
sons and the tenderness of my daughters.
your steel of spirit in the doves on
city cables. in the potted sage.
put me in my proper place,
when you receive me in His kingdom.
until then coffee and cigs;
6 a.m. in life unrepentant.
-to Jane and Hank-
Heliotrope Ave
she comes to me bold and big
as eternity. sunk into a feeling
of having taken all but kept
nothing.
the smell and the color
blinding to the eye. what good
is the poison to liven
my sky with a roof on it.
in this day i’d have liked
to share with you plans for
eternity after the baptism
in the electric after glow.
but it is not like that
and i can never hope now
that the calvary wants to
come any more.
the light in the sky
no longer sharp and the
birds pass the sky where the
flag has touched my battle.
scars and bones put to the test
petals and forms molecules
of death exalted above dirt.
rain check
i saw the fruit meant to be eaten
and i turned away from it.
i could not endure opening my eyes
to what was before me.
the
hum of machines and
the slow burn of phantom progress.
the cat, she slowly walked on the
hot summer kitchen floors
licking her paws after a tuna dinner.
pills on the counter next to
the toast, i could not raise my hands
to lick.
one armed Jesus
“Whatcha got there, baby? Is so tiny.” She rasped and coughed through dried saliva crusted lips puckering in and out from an oval mahogany hole.
“It’s a little Jesus, but his left arm broke off, see? He kinda looks like a gun.” I responded looking at the damaged Son, offering her a peek.
“Oh, how that happen, baby?” She said licking her wide mouth and wiping the sour spit from the black corners.
“I’m not sure, maam. But I’ve had this Jesus for many years and He kinda never gets lost.” I answered gripping the tiny maimed Savior from His remaining arm while aiming it listlessly at a pigeon flopping in the rancid gutter water beneath our feet.
I turned to look at my companion as she swooshed some bottles around a grimy old Vons plastic bag. The rude lilac and blue back drop lighting from the 99₵ Store illuminated her matted gray hair and her red sweat suit varnished hard with the filth of the streets.
It was around 11:47 p.m. on a Wednesday that I found myself sitting on a graffitied bus bench in Hollywood. The street was dense with foreign cars, bleak in their ashy paint and dime sized nicks and dings. In the midst of the piss scented early spring drifts of night air she told me her name was Martha. I offered my hand and Martha declined politely by turning her face to the west. I looked at my hand, maybe it was dirty, but I couldn’t see much.
Hank
The Northwest has a different meaning
in this hour of the day.
Hey, Hank!
I’m trying to reach you by the telephone
standing in my blue boots,
but your old call box isn’t living here no more.
Hollywood and Western has truly made a switch.
No more ladies with the leopard print.
No more gentlemen with eyes to squint
at the devastation
of where you
and I grew up.
You know Hank, I never knew the snow.
Not the way nature intended anyway.
Yet, here I stand on Sunset, check.
Western, check. Hollywood, check.
Melbourne, Vermont check, check check!
Like when I was 20 summers long
stretching out my eardrums
hoping to catch some of your phrases;
some of your breaths.
A mere little prospect. Tiny.
Seeking you out Hank.
Like snowflakes on my tongue.
words less spoken 