watching the orange trees today full of buds and bees busy life ruthlessly buzzing forward my blood stale purple dripping from my nose the sky falling my feet facing up thoughts spilling from my ear prayer bowls howl when empty dragons chasing no longer lucrative so we reach for a key pad human thought what is where we go solid oak caskets flow among the fields of wires
he’s gone beyond not to come back here
no more long letters from Vienna
with sad pictures from Kodak
of a wife left behind
with a sickly child
no where to turn
hope long lost
she fades
ghost
“it’s been years since i thought about using my toes” she said sitting quietly on the corner of Hyperion and Effie streets she grew up hippie baby royalty before the majesties turned bourgeois as fuck “it’s been years since i thought about painting my toe nails” she said tucked tightly into her wheelchair under a patchwork or greens and bright reds and her nurse coos “you take you Sublocade now ma’am” with her bugged pewter blue eyes and see through seer sucker skin she looks to the underneath of the yellow bougainvillea tree and snarls at the men smoking lined up slouched on the brick wall looking at their toes recalling a war and the traumatic brain injuries and legs blown off as more than one slouches sobbing in fear “it’s been years since i’ve walked on my feet” she sighs out loud through aged yellowed lips that once kissed the sky and the dandelions but now are sealed most of the time to keep her cancerous insides from falling out “it’s been months since those boys have been here” she said “i wouldn’t want them to see me falling apart” she wheezed under her breath on that corner of Hyperion and Effie streets
Charlie grew weaker
from the old
1940s window pane
i’d hear him
then one dusk
in September nothing
a few days
passed i rummaged
the building’s trash
casually looking for
unexpected art supplies
it seemed Charlie’s
kin tossed out
everything that he
possessed and of
no advancement for
them pedigreed relatives
yet in my
quest for treasure
troves i found
from Ohio an
old Glessco bottle
me
staring
silently
at sun flowers
floating in their pot
enjoying golden warmth
while birds chirp a symphony
the heavy heart looking at them
wondering where time went yesterday
my eyes know that i too will wither soon
may your health always be abundant
and if your heart goes on and skips a beat
may it be for raging glorious joy
and not caused by anger that you keep
i wish you all the gold and silver coins
that your pockets can absorb
and that your house be warm and stable
with no enemies at your door
may your children be strong and faithful
may they grow in the wisdom you provide
as they walk in your own footsteps
until the day of their own path arrives
may your hands always be filled with warmth and comfort
radiating from the hands of those who love you so
may you always have the blessings
from the One who guides your soul
mornings are hard when you know you’ll have to be with people with lots of soul pain. the typical refrigerated store air nipped at my nose as i trudged to the coffee line. Larry read the hospital paperwork poking out of his coat pocket with the torn leather elbows.
Larry had probably seen Halley’s Comet twice. he wore a blue plaid shirt with faux mother of pearl snaps, black dickies and steel toes. he had a decently robust head of hair, silvery with a darker shade of gray streaking towards the back. per chance when his brain cells had a more cordial relationship amongst themselves, he might have been only assigned to crafts requiring brawn and handy work. his face was anglo. blue eyed, long and thin, perhaps an Irish boy.
he had steady hands. a little calloused, but one could tell that he’d done his fair share of manual labor and partook in bare knuckle bar brawling, often. his dull downward stare declared days fleeted away full of insults, dukers’ blows and abysmal marks where many tears had corroded away at the spirit. all, of course, to the voice of Patsy Cline in the background. broken spirits usually have the ability to sit graciously across from a chair full of spilled coffee or possibly the Devil as well. no one paid attention so the old man introduced himself to the arabica soaked nothingness sitting at his table.
‘i know how to make mashed potatoes. you can’t leave the skin on, otherwise they don’t taste good.’ Larry abruptly spat out his directions to the emptiness in front of him. he had a good tone, not raspy or squeaky, kinda’ like if John Wayne and Bogey had a baby. ‘you put the butter in after you mashed them sons-of-bitches up real good! but the butter has to be soft, otherwise the potatoes taste fake.’ i relished in his pronunciation and perfect punctuation.
distracted by the buzzy voice overhead blazing the $5 specials the old man then looked at me. turning slighty pink Larry smiled and quickly began to wipe the table down as he stuttered and apologized. i smiled and offered my extra napkins. together two bruised souls sopped up a mutual figurative mess.
pain at sunrise can cost a slight loss of mind. angry and melancholy like the crazy Hamlet. i think of actions and confusion of morality. i’m a villain to myself. i am fearful that God has gone by me super-fast, like when it’s too late to move your car when the parking ticket lady is writing the ticket. solitude and desperation of heart and soul can make one see things in a past that one never had and the reality of the future 5, 10, 30 minutes is too frightening. time grows stale at dawn. Griffith Observatory is oh so far away but down the street from where i live. the young folks are out being hip and smart in the world. i wonder if when they are as old as i am will they inherit my thoughts as they breathe my CO2 as they are doing now. i fear for us i fear for me for i am much more of a coward than they. they are still blissful in their youth and i am subjected by my wisdom of what is to come at dusk. time grows short and it comes in spurts, like my bloody noses and stories and such. maybe God will come my way again like the bus on the stop that forks in the road at sunset.
words less spoken 