Sunday, August 21, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Tell me it ain’t a madman’s wind
Blowing off the bluffs
This morning over the town
A haint slipped off about dawn
From the roof of the ancient church
Went the way of a gull feather
On a winging current
He was like
The sliver of smoke
A dangerous woman
Knifes from one nostril
His was like
I did not get to watch
Of others, who never knew
The whitewashed walls and
Bougainvillea of this horseshoe bay
Nor the multiplicity
Of blue doors
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
For Pongo Teen Writing
ALL AT ONCE
I see my father in the eyes of an incarcerated teen
For nine years I’ve been without a compass, yet somehow
Standing in a predawn kitchen letting my son smear jelly on my forehead
like a blessing
I listen to late night traffic for counsel
And if wind takes my smoke sideways
I reach out a hand and close my eyes
But with a house and wife, baby and dog, university degrees and leased Subaru
The space for loss has shrunk
I’m glutted on ease and fortune
The domino effect of privilege has taken a hold of my life
The sweet stink of gore, the tangled limbs in the trench, the sheets of rain that cloak the enemy as he bears down
Have no place on this beach
Each year it’s getting easier and easier
Which scares me because
I don’t want to wear a smile back to war
And I know it's coming
All at once.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The AK ammo on my shelf is called Silver Bear, and it’s from Russia.
The airbrushed sticker from a hip burger joint in West Seattle is of Lucifer, with pointed ears and pleasure in his face.
The Blues Brothers in their powdered makeup stare the garage down with glasses and cigarettes and not a concern in the world for political correctness.
My medical marijuana license bears paragraphs indented dramatically and tamper proof seals and careful signatures.
The Suzuki seems to lounge more than stand, lean more than sit, canted at an angle with a shiny black helmet on its hip.
Pema Chodron smiles off the cover of a book the size of a box of smokes.
Knife, mace, mini video camera and flashlight pose on my shelf for someone to come along who needs their service.
Yellowing papers of poetry and Comcast bills sleep tossed about like the end of a binge by a cyclone no one else felt.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
When you exhale Marlboro red smoke
In my memory, I’m reminded of
How much was cloaked between us
We fogged the years with tequila and towers of music
Fine blue looping script between the lines
Was more of a plan than an action
I’m not sure which glow is the cherry of your cigarette,
Which the glow of your brake lights
Rolling down the long, sooty slope of
An Angeles mountain
I want a red
And one more night
When you exhale.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
I swing through the corner in my black family wagon that’s also kind of sporty; it starts with an ‘S.’
Can’t bear to say it.
I’m sitting on the curb and my eyes are spiraling with lost purpose, my homies are popping ollies and smoking.
I’m kind of embarrassed at having nothing else to do.
I stomp the brake three times behind a raucous red haired skater kid.
Rolling past his seated homies I cast a look at one, level, but I realize there’s a spark fired there anyway.
Subaru driving motherfucker with a fedora and baby seat stares hard.
My shoulders jump and my eyes fire in a fake attack without my thinking.
Without thinking I stomp the brake again, once.
Window sighs down and my anger launches.
I figure he must be beefing to lurch his car like that.
I ask him if he is and my skin is popping but I’m calm too.
My fingers punch the seatbelt before simple math crowds around me.
Translate the rage as it tumbles out into something prone to words….
Boss of the pristine block he’d like to be.
I don’t blink at the holler about his cop neighbor and shit.
Nobody’s leaving and the redhead is on my window fake friendly.
The crew is more laconically defiant than bristling, actually.
Punk’s off no doubt dialing the law.
But Mr. Bitchass fucked up my high and now I can see how we might be blocking the street.
Park hard and dial, ogling the rearview.
But I flipped out like a man I never meant to be, want to walk down block and shake hands; I duck into home instead.