the day i was hit by a moving vehicle

i remember,
stepping outside,
and tipping my glass to the evening fog.

and i remember that the fog didn't acknowledge me at all.
in fact, it swept over me like warm, dry laundry
and just kept on hovering around
like a punk ass kid...

in a 7-11 parking lot...

begging for cigarettes.

i remember thinking about
my chipped tooth,
which in turn made me
think about wounds and injuries,
the crusty grit of an old scab,
and all the times you sliced me
with the ribbon in your hair.

and i vaguely remember bursting into laughter
at all the seconds i'd spent
doing "important" things.

and that's when
the bottle flew from my hand.

and i saw
the streetlight,
an old, faded fence,
and a thousand bits of glass bouncing off
the asphault like quartz teeth.

and then everything became dim.

and i fell asleep forever
right then and there,
reading the label on my shattered bottle
over and over and over again,
until i could no longer see.

through the standard eyes

he drank through hours working
she wore cream on her face

he sawed through paychecks calling
she ribboned all their waste

so every day,
they could ignore,
the finger in their thoughts.

pointing to,
the simple truth,
more often than not.
-
the only way to bear the engine is to turn the head
and hide it in the couch cushions when the engine's dead

the only way to steer the car is to turn the head
and let it go, to coast along, when the engine's dead
-
she drank her whiskey fluids
she cleaned her rabbit coat

he sawed through steak and lemons
he shoved them in his throat

so everyday,
they could ignore,
what older children taunt.

the problem with,
the simple fact,

we
see
what
we
want.

george washington's secret letters

"So what are you doing?"

"I don't know."

"I think I know what I'm doing."

"Are you sure?"

"Umm... I think."

"But you're not sure."

"No. I don't think anyone is."

"What about George Washington? I bet he knew what he was doing."

"I never met him."

"Me neither."

"Do you think he had a big ego?"

"I never met him."

"How did he die?"

"He died of laryngitis."

"That's a silly way to die."

"It was different back then."

"Was his wife there?"

"Yes, she was by his side."

"Did he love his wife?"

"Deeply."

"How do you know? You never met him."

"Well, after his death, Martha Washington burned every letter George wrote to her, except two. Of these two letters, only one has ever been found."

"What did that letter say?"

"As Life is always uncertain, and common prudence dictates to every Man the necessity of settling his temporal Concerns— and whilst my Mind is calm and undisturbed, I carry your image with me. For it is your kindess and beauty that inspire my faith in humanity."

Bring Me Some Cake

Just give me some cake already.

Seriously.

What do I have to do?

Please... tell me.

Tell me what I have to do... to TRICK YOU into bringing me some cake.

Do you know,
that if you walk to the market and buy me some cake
you'll get some healthy exxxerrrrccccisssse. And that's good for you.

Bringing me cake is good for you. 

BUT ONLY...

if you WALK and
BRING ME SOME CAKE.

That's the only way to get exercise these days.

And that's the only way I'm going to like you.

So let's make this easy on both of us:
Bring me some cake.

Just bring me some cake...
set it down in front of me...
and walk away.

And don't look at me.

Don't you dare look at me.

Keep your hands where I can see them and slowly back away.

And if you even THINK about calling the cops...

I'll shoot everyone in the room.

And I mean it. 

How to Find the Best Canyon

snap your worries like dry, dead branches,
and watch them explode 
into bright, white mist
as if they were made of sugar. 

crack open the vodka
 and pour it into
a frosty mug
 of creme soda

sit back with the house plants,
and let the springs of the couch crack the weight

let your hair bounce lightly
into black and white light

and let your shoulders crumble and thaw
into warm, soft bread

and damn it,
just let go of everything

like you did when you were young.

and slide down the hill
on a flattened cardboard box
all the way to the bottom

until there's no more hill to ride.

broken brick wall

there was a wall behind a shed
that ran a mile abreast a flock
of houses bricked in blister red
and baked to brown like gingerbread
along a creek the others did not walk

that razor winds had picked to crumbs
and scattered pieces 'neath the trees
scraping mortar and callused thumbs
a sturdy structure oft becomes
a pile of pepper broken by the breeze

a wall of rubble, cut and scarred
built for scenery, little more
now catching litter from the yard
cable bills and credit cards
and grocery sacks sucked from every door

and so i lifted up the wall
of brick and mortar left to rot
and took the fortune of the fall
and carried pieces big and small
down the lazy path my world forgot

and dropped the wall that once was frail
into the earth, alone-apart
and forged a path without a rail
bright beyond the shady vale,
yes, broken bricks can still support a heart.

invalid subject line, you cannot leave the subject blank.

wicker
baskets

filled

with
dryer lint,
wax fruit,
and
reese pieces

makes me think

of E.T.
and itchy grandmas.

i've finally decided
that
my own personal dining room centerpiece

is a rusty tuba

spilling out old blue shirts,
smoke,
and ridiculous,
unobtainable,
romantic situations

covered in hot coals,
music,
pills,

and gun powder.

keep on truckin' you dumb bastard.

Willis Tombstone Company

Bill Willis was an amputee
by the age of just thirteen
having lost his leg from a battery acid burn.

Now a martyr to his migraines
in a chiseled granite home
carving monuments and tombstones
for our bones.

big yellow surprises

pictured above...
is an honest baby.

there are days when i feel just like that baby.
days when i think i have the world simplified.
days when my perspective is narrow enough
to keep life roughly manageable.

and then...
a giant, yellow question mark reaches out and grabs me.

and no matter how much i scream,
his face never changes.

he knows i know nothing...
and his stitchy smile
is life's sadistic way of reminding me.

what is this weird place
where adults walk around
inside grotesque exaggerations of themselves?

there's certainly no truth to be found here.

just random bits of color, 
raining with the ticker-tape.

costumes and flashlights

waiting while searching

then taken away

to that final, queer, everlasting holiday
we all cherish
 and fear.

the old violent and wild

sometimes...
your rib cage
holds violent and wild creatures
and in every vein
fires a branch of lightning.

sometimes...
your eyes are sunburned and sand blasted,
having been victims of a rough and abusive sleep.

sleep that's lasted decades.
sleep that's done no good.

sleep that's skimmed the surface,
as if it's mocking you.

sentence fragments
pound their way through
like tent stakes
and blast through your logic,
like bursts of cold, compressed air
or sudden escapes of
steel.

utter chaos.

sometimes they break through skull bone.

these are the thoughts that take weeks to dissolve
and they taste like stale metal.
like batteries.

and there is nothing

NOTHING

you can do but wait them out...

escape or ponder...

keep busy...

or do your best to pretend...

they are not there.

keep busy,
and
keep moving.
 

still awake

still awake.

moths are sweepin' my eyes
and polishing my glasses.

the streetlights have become
pale and watery.

i've never seen 'em shine green before.
must be my eyes.

swimmin' in white wine.

downtown it's quiet.
eerie.
like a widow's den.
dusty yet clean.

buildings covered in sheets.
rooms that are never used.

near 10th street i watched the train pass.
i got out of my car and stood right there next to the tracks and let the wind
snag my scarf.

the train was a long one, a standard freight train,
and i waited until the entire thing passed.

it sounded so good.
loud enough to drown my concerns.

when i was a kid i used to wave to the man working
on the the caboose
and he always waved back.

tonight, i stood by the tracks and waited for the caboose.
but it never came.

the last car was just a brown Santa Fe box car.
just the standard deal.

for some reason,
i haven't seen a caboose in years.

you must be this tall ----------------}

Well then,
toss me in the trunk!

I'll sit in a breathless void
with the wires and the rags and the fuzzy caution lights
and I'll suck the oily vapors
and force myself a-w-a-k-e.

Or hell,
strap me to the roof!

I'll clench my teeth
as wind blown scabs slap me in the face
and airborne highway grasshoppers
cut scars around my eyes.

I'll hold on.

I'll hold onto to the roof rack for as long as I possibly can,
watch my tie break into seizures and thrash about
while the bills in my pocket, sail to the sky.

Yes my friend, I'll take the beating of a lifetime,
fight to maintain grip, toil and struggle,
and even smile at the end

as long as you will kindly

take me with you

for the ride.

It Wasn't Over Yet

They claimed that there in the woods,
among dogs of doubtful parentage,
in a club of scrub oaks,
by a pitched weather-beaten tent,
grated with buckshot,
laid the snarled remains
of his body

All the while,
under a culvert,
by the Red River,
he watched as the searchlights
fanned through the thicket,
twixt the branches and the stems,
sliding shadows across his face,
like old, familiar
prison bars

How could they have known
he had taken residence in a condemned theater
with the mongrels and the psychopaths,
learned to numb despondent thoughts,
practiced his aim,
and forged a shooting iron
from old railroad spikes

How could they have known
that he was prepared to fight back,
had been through all of it before,
knew the back roads, the bridges, the fields,
and absolutely refused to die by anyone's hand
but his own.

boing - stop

i'm sitting on the driveway and
life is popping by like a flashbulb.

the weeks have become an old bouncy ball,
with chipped rubber and a glitter core.

still flashy on the inside

damn, it all moves so fast
and only slows down

on carpet or grass.
 

She Hit Him in The Face

she hit him in the face
and unhinged his jaw.
it felt good to see her again.

she'd learned something about the world since he'd last seen her.
she'd learned how to hit.

in fact, she'd done quite a bit of hitting over the past few years
and had become exceptionally good at it.
she landed her punches clean and straight with
excellent alignment of the wrist and elbow.

when her first punch connected he felt lightning in his toes.
it arched upwards and frayed through his body like poison mist.

when her second punch connected
it loosened a tooth and cut his cheek.
like a busted pinata, memories scattered from his mind
and fluttered to the ground.

he had only one thought left:

where had she learned to hit like that?

when her last punch connected
his hearing went out, replaced by the pitch of a tuning fork,
and he sought refuge in the cracks of the sidewalk
with the weeds and the pennies. 

his nails clawed the concrete
and his blood sparkled in the sun as it seeped down the curb.
his world was now the ground.

his hot breath blasted away dirt and debris from his face
and for the first time in a year,
he felt his eyes.

he deserved this.

yet still...

despite the pain...
and the long history of quarrels and carnage
that littered their time together

it felt good to see her again.

and secretly,
she felt the same.

old friend poem

today i drove out in the country.

farm dogs are the happiest dogs on the planet.

the air smelled wonderful.
wet leaves and walnuts.
cool whip and soft serve clouds.

a mile away,
curtains of rain set the stage
while the sun sang over
scratched 45s.

everything had a place.
even me, streaming down the road in a baby blue
tin can.

the entire afternoon was a slow, graceful performance.
the fields and roads were empty.
the highlights were subtle.

the grass fell in love with the music and
swayed silently
back and forth
with closed eyes.

the breeze begged for human touch
as it swirled through the creek,
and spun through the trees,
and brushed the ground,
like a thick dress.

every inch of it all...
rich with detail,
gentle and soft,
reflecting itself
through fog and frosted glass.

every copper lantern, rusty hinge, rusty chain...
everything metal...
played itself lightly
like a hollow field of bells.

every branch, every mailbox, every fence post,
every piece of wood...
stretched and moaned
and slept soundly.

sometimes the world
screams for attention.

sometimes it sparks itself up and
slams the screen door.

but then...
on days like this,
it bounds through the city with a quiet urgency,
rushes across the pavement trailing strings of dried leaves,
draws a deep, limitless breath and prepares itself
for war.

only to pause

whisper and wink

and walk with a cane.

just an old friend,
saying hello.

exit 37

sometimes i think about how easy it would be

to violently swing the wheel to the off ramp

and veer away in the opposite direction

through the briar and the buildings,

the litany of functions and tasks,

away from everyone and everything.

sometimes i think about the release.

to try out life as a complete stranger

in a vacant town

and mulch my voice

into that of

an old man

living for nothing

but music

and wind.

L’OCCITANE En Provence GEL DOUCHE VETYVER

I was standing in my shower this morning,
standing there, leaning up against the wall,
hunched over,
feeling the heat mix the concrete in my shoulders
and the steel in my neck,
and watching the years of steam
rise off my battered mind
like a sad and sterile chimney.

I was standing there,
melting
when I reached over to grab my French shampoo...
and noticed...
that there, indented on the bottle,
was braille.

Yes, braille.
My shampoo bottle had braille on it.

I never noticed that before.
Right there over the label.
Braille.
Right there, over the French text that I could not read anyway, was braille,
something else I could not read.

I received this fancy shampoo with the purchase of a new suitcase.
It is special.
It is cheap suitcase-gift basket-shampoo.
And this whole time, I thought the label was wrinkled and old.
But it wasn't.
It was new and progressive.

I think that pretty much sums it up for me.
Do you know the old saying: "Can you see the writing on the wall?"

Well, my response to that is this:
"No. No, baby, I don't see the writing on the wall.
But I did notice the braille on the shampoo.
And just like you,
or that fucking wall,
or the swirling Universe around me...

I have no idea what it's trying to tell me.
And I sure as hell ain't learning to read French braille."

my own personal rock avalanche

in a flash,

and without any rational intent,
thirty thousand
boulders suddenly
leapt from my hill.

friends will tell you,
that it was an awful avalanche.

and it was.

my boulders were jagged and coarse,
each one of them,
and they busted through my brain
as if it was tissue paper.

their shadows filled every pore beneath
every eye
and in their wake,
they left nothing,
but mangled homes
and patches of crust and grit.

they crushed every nay-sayer into cinder
and they roared through the throat,
bellowing,
like ancient, rusty cellos,
taunting the deaf with false vibrations
and blinding all reason.

no village stood a chance and
everyone ran...

or at least they tried.

hands were often raised
before impact
and all teeth
were ground to powder.

the sound was unbearable.

the echoes,
heard across the valley,
were soft and unsettling

like whispers under the bed

or blasts of air
on an eardrum,

and they hinted
towards a mysterious,
confusing,
undying need.

an emotional craving.

needless to say,
my rocks were once rich and pliable earth,
and much more manageable than they are today.

honestly, i don't know why they fell.

one can only assume,
that with their aging,
and with the hardening
of their insides,
they became too heavy

and collapsed

no longer sure
of where to go
or what to be.

Too Strange to Predict

They claimed that there in the woods,
among dogs of doubtful parentage,
in a club of scrub oaks,
by a pitched weather-beaten tent,
grated with buckshot,
laid the snarled remains
of his body

All the while,
under a culvert,
by the Red River,
he watched as the searchlights
fanned through the thicket,
twixt the branches and the stems,
sliding shadows across his face,
like old, familiar
prison bars

How could they have known
he had taken residence in a condemned theater
with the mongrels and the psychopaths,
learned to numb despondent thoughts,
practiced his aim,
and forged a shooting iron
from old railroad spikes

How could they have known
that he was prepared to fight back,
had been through all of it before,
knew the back roads, the bridges, the fields,
and absolutely refused to die by anyone's hand
but his own.