Another one from the table

a track from The Church floating

out from the speakers in the living room

-f.m. radio for a change of pace-

fucking beautiful song

last time I heard this track was almost

the first time

driving through the farmland

on I5 headed toward

Fresno or someplace shit-awful

a year into the new century

little black Nissan pickup

my dog next to me

the sunset smeared across the

fields’ horizon outside the window

a laborer dream

but real as day

while I wrapped my head around

the next job site

the mornings waking up in the

back under the canopy

all my things pushed to the sides

around the wheel wells

my dog sleeping behind my knees

the redneck foreman pissing

in the cold dirt

a foot away from my

truck

the half-ass drive to the

gas station for coffee

water

soda

cigarettes

beef jerky

Excedrin

whatever the crew needed

to get the metal barns

built

the canvas roofs pulled

and tied

the stakes anchored into the

ground to pull the cables taught

street or dirt

didn’t matter

pound that shit down

get the site ready for

the fat and rich

weirdos with their

horses and spoiled brats

custom horse trailers

RVs that cost more

than most homes

rarely did we have to see them

but when we did it

was during tear-down

when we’d circle back through

from a different part

of I5, whether it was Burbank

or Monroe, Washington

or whether it was from

Highway 97

from Burns, Oregon

up

to Spokane

didn’t matter

the shit had to come down

and we had to make it happen

on time

any hangover

any breakdown

any type of human

condition outside of the job

was binary

including pain

or fatigue from the weight of

all the things we carried for

16 hours a day

But The Church’s

Reptile played

through the sunset

through the time knowing

that I knew where I was

where I wanted to be

a ghost off the grid

cheap pay

sleep outside

but there was a chain gang

rush to it

I couldn’t deny

or define

sore skin

the blood from

blisters or exploded

roof jacks

or from flat out

dropping to your knees

carrying a door across

a stretch of dirt and horse shit

I looked at the CD cover on the

bench-seat next to my dog

some free-shit-compilation CD

pushed on me at

the last coffee house

no radio signal

burned out on my music

so I surfed the CD and caught the

beginning of the song

and let it play out

and it was good there

in the truck

in the dream of fatigue

in the stretch of miles beating south

cast aside the sunset

the fields

watching

the torn sky

bleeding

mauve

down the

fading yellow

fields

black at their tips

the song playing

driving through

it with a film

covering me

that wouldn’t burn off

without something

outside of the job

something human

binary

something I couldn’t

figure out

but

the job was done

and I left that lifestyle

after a year or so

and now it’s

almost 2016

and I sit here

at the table

in my bungalow

waiting for the maid service

to show up

slamming coffee

downloaded the song to

my phone

add to playlist

I kill the radio

and hit play

on the little screen

and watch the room

sitting fair in

what I’ve asked for

waiting to see the cover

for the new book

set to drop in the spring

waiting to hear back from

people I used to read about

regarding collaboration

on scripts

all of that

but still waiting

for something

to burn off the film

to pull whatever it is

up or down from where

it rests

from where it hides out

and fucks with me.

to know that nothing

will break us

early

except mistake

or faith in fate

or something outside

of our control

is good enough

when the

head is clear

and the moon rolls blue

down the arms

and the fire in our

bellies

fans up and out

to beat the

ugliness

while Coltrane

rips the notes from

his heart

and throws them at yours

while the heat pipes up

from the vents

and the dogs

dream on the couch

while you know the night

moves through you

while the words bite

into the page

while the bums

fuck in the alleys

and the women bait

the tables

alight by wax or neon

while the streets are cold

and stink of exhaust

of smoke

of broken-tooth breath

and slimy whispers

we stay

where we are

warm with

red wine music,

poems,

and these nights at the table

the guts in the

wood of the room

even the lamps and

light from the kitchen

hold a dignity

the streets can’t

touch

the window and moon and

sound of the keys

our burning punk compulsion

against the

ordinary things

on the other side of

the door

on nights like this

when we

get back to

what we’ve

learned from

our dead.

Writing from the mattress

fog bank head

sinuses drained to gums

pulse heavy in ear

filling an old notebook

Saturday night on Central

a waxed-brain drive to the drug store for medicine

sweating in line

the guy behind the counter

looked slightly

touched with

Downs syndrome or

fetal alcohol syndrome

or a premature birth

but whatever it was

he also had an angry look on

his face, a chip on his shoulder,

something to prove

-a little chubby cowboy

in his heart

wanted payback

for something

on some level-

He looked up at me

and asked me if

I was drunk

and if I drove there

a few people in line

looked me up and down

I ignored him while he put

the Tylenol in the bag but

he handed me the bag

and told me he was

serious about

it

was I drunk

I stared down at him:

Why? You want to fuck me?

an old man in line started laughing

but I kept my eye across the counter at his half-frightened stare

and started to feel bad

anyone with a normal brain

would be

able to tell by my color and sweat that I was sick

I waited for the war to rage

but he just stood there with

his mouth half open

wide moon eyes

and a mole sprouting hair

just under his eye socket

I looked dead at it

and something changed

inside me, something in the

heart

a flicker

or a trick of light

a feeling that

his face

was my whole past

staring at me

I smiled at him:

I'm sorry, buddy. I'm just sick, and I need to sleep. Make it a good night.

Back here in bed I can't get that mole out of my mind

and I worry that he's even more aware of it now

and I worry that

I hurt his feelings

and I know it's going

to keep me awake all night

even though it brought

an old man some joy

and showed me

the past is

more breakable

than I thought

it was.

7-Eleven

just past dusk

I watched them from inside

standing there arguing

over cigarettes

he was a disgusting fuck of a human being

head shaved bald, shining with sweat

a black sleeveless shirt and

black tweeker jeans

and those weird tweeker fingerless black gloves

she was an old Native

skin scorched to leather

eating something sloppy

from inside

next to her drink on top

of the garbage can

I paid for my things and watched them while I waited for my change

he raised his arm up at her

weak fist

and she flinched

the counter girl gave me

an apologetic look

I walked out and unlocked my door

set the bag on the passenger seat

and he did it again

I closed my door and walked up

to the sidewalk

he looked at me and I shook my head

“What the fuck, man?”

he put his hands up

“Hey, it’s cool, brother. Hard ass day.”

she looked at me indifferently

and put another

bite into her mouth

I walked back to my car and heard him talking low

“You fuckin’ bitch. The fuckin’ cigarettes are OURS, you goddamn hear me?”

I started the engine, he raised the arm again

and I shut it off

the counter girl walked out and said something

to them and went back inside

he walked off in a huff

clutching his backpack in his slimy grip

she watched after him and yelled,

“YOU DON’T WANT ME HAVIN’ NOTHIN’!”

she swallowed another bite

bit the straw and drank

trashed the food

threw her bag over her shoulder

grabbed her drink

and walked after him

I restarted the engine and backed out, took a left onto Solano, drove up my street

and thought about living alone

the glory and restlessness of it

all the good and bad

but at my house

the dogs were there

the machine was there

the night was there

and there was something

young about it

I parked in my driveway and killed

the lights.

As if you're actually listening to this writing live-stream broadcast. Yet fortunately "if" does not necessarily imply "improbable."

I admit I'm prosing via iPhone for the first time in however many months. But it's okay. Shit happens. Get over it.

I'm about to finish a late-night snack. Be back in about five. Not that it practically matters.

Made it back in three. But have I MADE IT, yet? I don't know. What say thee? Fuck medieval snd rhyme -speak. And fuck the grammatical law mandating a hyphen pertaining to two or more signifiers requires a space. Then again I don't know. Maybe that verbalegality has sufficient reason, despite seeming insane.

Yet who gives a FUCK about sufficient reason when the season is summer and it's all about fun and abundance and the utter antithesis of overthinking or overanalyzing any kind or type of reasoning or writing.

Alright(ing), I'm done. Time for a sip to re-equip this throat with the means to...

The desert met us at nightfall in New Mexico, but we had stopped in the Texas Panhandle to look at the stars. They were bright and close to the desert, dusty and forever, and bulging from their firmaments—swirls of galaxy and all things mysterious, the beauty of our pilgrimage wept in blinks of white and silver, and flashes of modest reds from the convex sky. And there at the turnout we undressed and fucked on the hood of the car, our bodies a speck of tongue writhing beneath giants and fleeting space junk.

typing on the empty side

of an abandoned letter

but you will not see

the mistakes and laziness

-just the finished product

of another

motherfucking

poem.