Monthly Archives: May 2013

Words Fail Me

I can’t tell you how I feel
Words fail me
I’m balanced on an I-beam
Moving side to side
Never to or away from you
My words are my safety net
But right now they fail me

I can’t get deep inside of you
Words fail me
I’m outside of a big glass window
I can see you
But I can’t get near to you
My words would unlock the door
But right now they fail me

I can’t walk away from you
Words fail me
I wonder if time will bear me out
I want to talk
But I’m not sure I can
My words would carry me
But right now they fail me

They Are Gone

I keep hearing voices over my shoulder
They are calling out my name but when I turn around
They are gone
Sometimes it sounds like they are yelling
From far away
Sometimes it sounds like they are
Right behind me whispering
It is always voices of men
Sometimes it is the voice of my father
I thought maybe it was some type of warning
But my father is still very much alive
And this is the voice of one who isn’t
I probably should be scared
But I am not
I am aware of them like
The black cat in front of me
But I know they cannot hurt me
Not yet anyway

At the Hard-Luck Cafe

One drunken angry homosexual ruined my breakfast this morning
My pancakes and root beer that the Louis L’Amour man cooked for me
Real honest-injun covered wagon cakes with hash browns and root beer
This isn’t even really a neighborhood where homosexuals hang out
He fell off of his stool and slammed his queer head on the grimy tile floor
I reached for the hot sauce – but I just didn’t have it in me to finish breakfast

The Maniac Stoplight

I can see my life go flashing past me
Like a maniac stop light
Green to red at amazing speed
Red back to green
Faster – faster – faster
When I want to go
I am forced to stop
When I get comfortable stopped
Something forces me to go
Wondering who has control over that light
Wondering if it can be repaired
Or will I be stuck at this intersection
Not knowing what to do
Not going when I see green
Or maybe hitting the gas
When I see red

Across the Road

It was hardly a silent night when the pregnant crystal snowflakes fell about – between the moonbeams and streetlights. Each descending its own path of least resistance – like the swollen tear that ran down your cheek and settled in your ear as you cried yourself to sleep.

I tried to call to you from where I stood on the decaying wooden staircase but my words were muffled by the downy mist. I watched you shiver – the snow clinging to your eyelashes – little bursts of air spilling forth from the thin space between your thin lips.

I called out your name again, my cold red hands cupped to the sides of my mouth. My breath’s steam carried your fragile name and nestled it into your frozen red ears.

The night finally fell completely – leaving only the naked sun over your left shoulder. It burned my eyes and made me close them tightly. The brilliant reflection off of each blade of each snowflake danced – pink – across my eyelids.

for Cindy…

Your Ass Is a Work Of Art

Your ass is a work of art
Like two perfect cantaloupes
Rolling around in your back pockets
You probably hear that a lot
I probably never would have told you,
But sitting here I saw the reflection
In the bottom shelf mirror
And I never would have believed
That there could be two asses in the world
That were so perfect – so symmetrical
So delicious that I just want to touch it
I want to see if it’s real
Not bury my face in it
Just see it and touch it with my hand
It’s that kind of ass
A look and touch but don’t-go-too-far ass
I really like your ass
I really like looking at your ass
It holds the highest honors
In my Ass Hall of Fame
Because your ass is a work of art

I Stand by Your Bedroom Window

I stand by your bedroom window
Watching the parade of men
The men who take to you there
The men who fill your body
The men who make you beg for more

I stand by your bedroom window
Watching the parade of men
The men who feed you there
The men who fill your mouth
The men who leave you hungry for more

I stand by your kitchen window
Watching the parade of women
The women who lick you
The women who eat you alive
The women who make you beg for more

Bomb Threat: Los Angeles: 2013

II

No one is moving away from the free food table any time soon
There are few seats and the cement ledges aren’t comfortable
I flirt with a woman who is concerned about her curly hair
I tell her she looks beautiful – she smiles – she doesn’t hear that enough

We decide to cross Jefferson Street and go into the temple to get a good seat
We decide to cross Jefferson Street and go into the temple to get out of the sun

We are stopped by a chubby young cop who explains there has been a bomb threat
He postures like John Wayne and tries to wrest the most out of his badge and uniform
No one is buying- but everyone is listening – he relishes the audience – he is so LA

You gotta go around he says You gotta enter on Pico – this is where the event is.
(By event he means this is where the caller said the bomb was hidden)

Brave and crazy – the mass of humanity moves toward Pico – impervious to the threat
We are AMERICANS and these are our kids and you won’t ruin their special day

Did no one learn anything from Boston?
Did we forget in one short month what was at stake?

We move as one under the California sun – the police woman politely lifting the caution tape
We have to get into the temple before all of the good seats are taken

I wear a flimsy black bag on my shoulder – no one checks it
NO ONE CHECKS IT
I hold my coveted ticket out for scrutiny – no one checks it
NO ONE CHECKS IT

They simply herd us into the storied theater with the magnificent chandelier
We settle in and prepare for the speeches and the processions

Somewhere – someone is waiting for CNN coverage – hoping for attention
Somewhere – someone is wringing his hands – staring at the phone on the kitchen table

We walk and we sit politely together because we are AMERICANS and these are our kids

Los Angeles: May, 2013

I
It is a slapdash city thrown together with an eye for cacophony
Somehow it still lures lost souls and lonely hearts year after year
They come from farm towns and sepia hollows dreaming of glitter and magic
Los Angles is like a cheap whore trying to make the best of herself
Los Angles is like a cheap whore putting her best face forward
Deep down that golden heart is tarnished and wearing thin

Ancient palm trees mingle with thumbprints of commerce and fast food
So many signs in so many languages and so many colors
They are urban lilies – the kind only Georgia O’Keeffe could have imagined

The history is as thin as the celluloid it is printed on – still the people come
Still they are seduced by the slapdash whore sleeping fitfully on the beach