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.

 

 

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.

 

Jewelry on TV

Once a month, jewelry goes on sale on The Home Shopping Network,
and the sales women get really excited.

-------------------Copied Verbatim-------------------

"Ladies and gentleman, oh Lordy... oh Lordy...
everything you see here,
everything on the tray...
is RED CARPET jewelry.

Look at this tray!
It is FULL of gorgeous jewelry.
We have the best emeralds,
the best rubies,
the best alexandrite...
look...
Item 21-B is heart shaped with.. I believe... yes, specertite.
HEART SHAPED! How cute is that Valerie?
Hearts mean true love.
Every woman's fantasy.
Am I right Valerie? This is specertite, correct?

(no response)

Well, these pieces are not the tens of thousands of dollars you'd expect.
They aren't $40 but I will tell you that they are much cheaper than retail.

I challenge you to TRY and find these prices in your retail store.
Ladies...
your treasure is on this tray.
The treasure you have been searching for is here.
Look at this... look at this...
a pair of 14 karat white gold, diamond earrings.
These are pure celebrity.
They have a three and a half inch drop
and they are the epitome of the red carpet.
Only $5999.00.
That's right. $5999.00 for that celebrity shine.

Check out item 3C.
I mean look at that sapphire, it just won't stop.... it just won't stop.
Simply gorgeous.
When's the last time your husband laid something like this on your neck?
I know mine gets scared in the jewelry store! Now's your chance to treat yourself.
Dress up that neck! You deserve the red carpet treatment.

A sapphire is great piece of jewelry because it can be casual yet elegant.
Look at this sapphire, so elegant. It pops. All this jewelry does.
Again, ladies, it's aaalllll RED CARPET.

I mean really, can you believe the items on this tray?
Valerie, can you believe it?
This tray is a dream, isn't it?
Valerie?
Okay, she doesn't have her mic on but I can speak for her...
these items...
are just breathtaking and if you could see Valerie's face,
she's as excited as I am. She looks really excited. Ladies, this is a REAL event.

Valerie - "Okay, I'm on!" 
 
Valerie?

"Yeah?"
 
There she is!

"Dot, I'm really excited about all this. I can't sit still!"
 
I know, I just told our viewers how excited you are.

"I had a bit of a... technical... um... (shuffling sounds) microphone problem, yes I had a problem with my microphone, but I'm ready to go now, and I want our viewers to know that what they're seeing today is out of this world.  I can't think of a better line of jewelry than what we have on our program today."

It's true red carpet.

"It's red carpet, it's Hollywood, it's everything you dream of.  It's a dream come true, Dot.  It really is...
a dream
come
true."

------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Dress to Rip - Vest to Throw

Dear Universe, you're quite a show.
I'd like to buy an episode.
Send a box and please enclose:
One DRESS to rip.
One VEST to throw.

And a lovely penny on a rail,
that's wrecked some trains and sparked some tales,
and loves the labels on the wine,
swipes her bangs,
but hides her eyes.

Draws finger quilts, with window steam
that appear and vanish, as she breathes
and sharpens scissors in her head,
for thicker seams
and tougher thread.

No model, dream-life, art store ad
like paisley bones in catholic plaid.
Those lick 'em stars, they never stick
and scented markers
dry out quick.

Dear Universe, my episode:
Two strangers dancing snag their clothes,
thread their breath and window sew:
One DRESS to rip.
One VEST to throw.
 

Age Respect Granted

Uh oh.
I'm an adult.



It's true.
I know it sounds weird.
It sounded weird to me at first,
but there's no denying it.

It wasn't
the creases near my eyes,
the thinning hair,
or the birthdate on my driver's license
that gave it away.

It was the fact that i can wear ANYTHING I want...
and mean it.

That's right.

When you're a kid, and you decide to wear something a bit odd,
you're generally interpreted as some rebellious punk with an
attitude problem or an identity crisis.

But when you're a full grown adult...
hell... you can wear a coon skin cap and people will look at you and wonder:

DID HE COME FROM THE FOREST?

IS HE FROM PENNSYLVANIA? 

Or more realistically...

DOES HE WORK AT THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON EXHIBIT AT DISNEYLAND?

People will BELIEVE YOU as if you're SERIOUS,
which means in a way, you can actually BE anything you want.

And I love that!! I think it's great!
I love that I can wear scrubs and a doctor's lab coat to a nice restaurant in Dallas
and people will believe it.

I can't count how many times I've heard:

"Help sir! My husband is choking! Doctor! Help!"

Every time this happens, I just have to laugh. I just sit back and laugh and laugh and laugh. And if the guy dies, I stop laughing. I stop laughing and become very serious. Then I lean forward and say:

"Madam, please accept my condolences."

However, if the guy lives, I keep on laughing and eating steak.
Such fun. Such good fun.

When I was a kid the entire thing seemed so silly,
but sadly, it's all true:
Age grants respect to a man.
RESPECT.
Granted, it's only a little respect.
A few decades ago, age granted a lot more respect than it does today.
But there's still a little respect left to grant, so dammit...
let's all take that respect for granted!

all the same

i find it funny... that all of our freedoms,
our riches, our varying beliefs, our strengths,
everything we've accomplished, built, destroyed,
and all of the wide open spaces in between,
all rest on the same
unleveled ground.

and that we will continue to plow and pick
the same tired scab
from the same timeless wound
over and over again,
until the last soul is spent.

it's the root of all the anger, the fighting, and the god-awful art.
and yet, it's the force of compassion, empathy, love, and benevolence
and the inspiration behind almost
every
magnum
opus.

that stupid question.

we fight maniacally
for the freedom to relax and ignore it,
escape it, worship it, redefine it, mock it,
and even paint over it.

whatever it takes

to make it

comfortable,

manageable,

understandable,

BEARABLE.

anything

to steer our thoughts clear of that
terrible, unknown emptiness.

anything

to keep the fear and uncertainty

from owning the rights.

and live the immaculate conception.

to accept it.

to love it.

to close our eyes... and pretend.

my goodness,
isn't it incredible
that the emptiness
is the only thing
that binds us together.

12 Years Old - 2 A.M.

at 12 years old,
i liked to slip out my bedroom window,
and sneak into the night with my friends,
along with the the fireflies, the cicadas, the distant trains,
and the constant kazoo hum of the brushed metal street lights.
 
we'd escape and hop backyard fences to nowhere.
 
we'd slide past rusted bar-b-que grills,
tripping over broken, plastic toys,
while weaving around the sleeves, the pockets, the alleys,
and the private shadows
of strange suburban homes.
 
the houses were always deep crimson or pale grey.
and the concrete under our bare feet was always cool,
even during the dead of summer.
 
what a thrill it was to explore the
forbidden silence of the neighborhood.

to cut the night open with a knife, for the first time.
 
we'd run from the dogs,
squirrel away,
and duck into manicured bushes and alleyways,
avoiding the watchful beams of
passing automobiles and
all the bedroom lights 
our voices disturbed.

"we must never be caught.
or we will most certainly be killed."
 
talking mostly about girls and guns,
we'd zig-zag to the edge of the edition,
where the light fell off the map,
and cross the barrier between captivity and freedom
deep into moonlit fields of undeveloped land.
that place where the houses had yet to feast.
that place where only the black, the blue, and the faded yellow grass
brushed the wind.
 
that place where terror and anticipation, lived
together.
 
there, we'd follow the gamut of unnamed virgin roads,
freshly paved with soft black tar.
-empty veins, waiting for homes-
we'd ride our bikes down those new roads with no hands,
until they bent and curved to the edge of the creek,
and eventually died into dirt.
 
and there past the telephone polls and tangled mess of barbed wire
we'd explore tired, old barns
with grey wood
and ancient hay,
and we'd climb up into their lofts
 
and we'd end up spending years there.

 

Interior and Exterior Paint Job

once again,
there you are,
standing in your kitchen, wearing

that awful business smile.

god, that smile hurts me.

cleans my cage hollow.

i hope you know,
i still see you under all that primer. 

under all that paint you've poured
recklessly over the roof, the windows, the sidewalk.

i walked through your wet paint
and now i'm stuck. 

and the porch lights are stuck
and the doors are dried shut.

and everything is covered up.

and you know as well as I,
that you can't paint the outside forever.

it's the inside that needs a coat,

or a fresh pint of blood.

something to bring back the
wonder...

the drive...

the love for tomorrow.

but as it stands,
there are only a handful of colors you want to paint with.

and dammit sweetheart,
as much as i hate you right now, i do understand.

when it comes to the inside...
if you can't choose the colors you want,
it ain't worth painting anything at all.


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.