Small town bar

whiskey and beer

and pool

bad yet good country spewing

from the juke

and forget the bullshit

the fucking news on your phone

the updates

and compulsion

the sad state of affairs

pervasive

sitting here buzzed

high as a giraffe's pussy

the next game breaks and I think

about Europe

or the feeling of Europe

or Europa

or who knows fuck

who cares

sophisticates

theorists

feminists

all of it can fuck straight off

in a house fire

none of them would exist

existing in flame is raw strength

but keep everything equal and careful

and dogshit safe

lest you offend

the ugly

progressives

but tonight's not about

those weak motherfuckers

not about Isis

or Trump

or Jenner

or whatever media

darling dominates

let's get back to love

to life

without a screen.

Tits and ass

and sunlight.

Shining through heart.

the world is

but a pulse

with shaved legs

and atrophy

and white beards

remembering glory.

All of us here now

waiting in flames.

it takes from you

what it took from those you hate

what it must do as the animal

and you become what feeds it

its shadow

its pulse

your excess of nothing

moves it up

across the cities

and countries and skies

you feed it

and it grows

older and older

without fear

of dying.

I remember walking home bloody

and walking in the front door

to the old man at the table

smoking cigarettes

with my mom

and when he asked me

what my problem was

I told him since we’d

moved there

a week ago

two boys older than me

two grades higher

were chasing and beating me

after school

while I tried to make it

across the field to our house

and every day it’s gotten

worse

until today when

they finally drew blood

my mother hustled to the

kitchen for the bottle of

shitty, burning-orange salve

to make the cuts worse and

while she rubbed it into the gaps of

blood and dirt and small rocks

in my knees and palms and forehead

the old man told me tomorrow on the way

home, I was to take my time across

the field, and when the two of them

stopped me

to punch the biggest one

square in the nose

and not to return home

until I did

and if I didn’t

then to plan on sleeping outside

without supper

or anything else

my mother started going on about

how she was going to call the school

and that I should report the

boys to the principal or vice principal

or to the teacher

but the old man saved me

the trouble of explaining

to her that no matter

how that was played out

I’d be labeled a rat

and I’d have it even worse

and the best way from A

to Z was a straight line

and it was time for me

to start figuring things

out and she started inventing

ways I could reason with the

boys, or how they could talk to

their parents, all the other angles

but he we wasn’t budging

and even after I left the room

they kept it going

I barely slept that night

because I took the old man

seriously

with his long beard

and tattooed fingers

back when no other dad had

such things

and also because I didn’t know

how to throw a punch

or if I could even reach the

bastard’s nose

and I was terrified

but the day was over

and I walked the field home

and the two boys were

there

and the books and folders

and backpack were again

knocked out of my hands

and I was again shoved to the

ground

and my adrenaline was boosted

and I could feel the old man

somehow watching me

and I went ahead and

brought it up

and hit the big one

on the nose

and the blood spat sideways

and he went down instantly

screaming a high pitched wail

while his buddy ran off

and a crowd formed and

I picked up my shit

walked home

where my knuckles

throbbed and my mom

wrapped my hand with

ice crushed in a wet wash rag

and the old man laughed

and nodded at me

and told me

once I took shit once,

I’d take it for the rest

of my life

and from then on

I had no trouble at school

but today this would be

“offensive”

and barbaric

the old man would be in jail

or slapped with some lawsuit

and

I’d be a pariah

and we’d be all over YouTube

today, instead of teaching our children to

truly stand up for themselves

they revert to their natural

forms of confusion

and cut their own flesh or

they blow each other away or

they commit suicide

on the Internet

due to

bullying.

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.

The bus jerked me awake to Los Angeles. The driver warned us to stay inside the terminal, and if anyone smoked and wanted to keep their smokes not to pull a pack out in front of the terminal. In there it was beautiful. Never had I’d seen such characters, such murderers. I stood outside of the terminal to see what the bus driver had been talking about. One guy pulled out a pack of smokes. He was rushed by a legion of bums. Crackmothers screamed at their crackbabies. Crackfathers hustled strangers. Bums would approach me and talk to me. They offered me dope and sex. Back inside one offered to carry my bags around for a dollar. A lot of hardened bums and players looked at me and nodded.

Hours passed in the terminal. I had mostly forgotten about Arizona already. I found a corner and sat in front of my bike box and my bags, playing my headphones in a theater of stranded flesh. I dozed off.

A security guard nudged me awake.

   “No sleepin’, youngblood.”

   I stood up. He was big and black. He asked me if I was waiting for somebody. I told him I wanted to go to a beach. I told him I didn’t know which one.

   “You should go to Venice. Lotsa girls and lotsa freaks. Lotsa everything.”

   He laughed. He had a lot of gold in his mouth. I asked him how much a cab would cost. He told me he would give me a lift in for twenty dollars after his shift. I told him that seemed like a lot of money for a ride. He laughed and told me I didn’t know anything. I pulled out my tools and built my bike.

We drove through the streets of Los Angeles. 8 a.m. During my wait for his dismissal I had consolidated my things into one backpack. I had three days of clothes with me. Everything else was expendable. The streets were bright and colored with tags and ghetto art. Even the litter in the streets had a feel to it, the wonder of possibility. The bums and the prostitutes and the cops, the gangs and the old and even the cars looked like they were in scene. He pointed out corners, pointed out schools and history. It was warm there. The old rooming houses stood proud and ugly. His dashboard was cracked, and the lines of the cracks were thick with smoke. He lit another off the butt of his last, tossed it and got a red light. I looked to my right and stared into the eyes of a crack whore.

   “Want me to suck it, baby doll?”

   “No.”

   He laughed behind the wheel. She shrugged and walked off.

   “No,” he said.

Downtown where Lead meets 3rd

two addicts were running from

two more addicts

to Animotion’s

Obsession

while I waited for the light

the first two disappeared between

two buildings

which shortly absorbed the second two

and it occurred to me that all four

of them were wearing brand new

parkas

what gives them away here

is their skin, but also their shoes

and also the way they run

not that I could judge them

beneath The Glenlivet

and

Vicodin

Sun

but the difference was

I hadn’t stolen anything

but I also didn’t give

a fuck about the parkas

because the desert

at night is fear

without mercy

in the blood of

addicts running

like wolves through

the garages downtown

and I was hoping

they’d pulled it off

and sure enough

two squad cars tore around

the rest of us at the light

cherries rolling

spotlights looking for the

four of them

but they were long gone

I turned up the song

and watched the sky burning pink

in the west

fronting a waiting

California

and the lost pages of Bandini

and years of colors drained now from

boulevards into

a life in the deep desert

I looked in the rearview

and thought about the house

my pups

the desk and all of it

the night that would be waiting

there

and while the music is fine

and the words do much

to keep you solid

there’s a gnawing

in the stomach

the heart,

the blood

that moves

so cautiously

across the broken things

they carry

to us still

and while we

know we’re

going to

make it through,

the loneliness

grows so heavy

it becomes

a lead sphere

inside of a lead sphere

but we count the years

like stars

lucky or not

shining or not

and it occurred to me there

that I was still lucky

any of us who can

take the time to

write

any of us who can

roll with the

day-to-day bullshit

that still gives way to

a night of poems,

of drinks,

of a pill in the mail from

a fellow writer taking effect

at sunset,

but any of us who still

have the metal left over

from the hours

we give

to sit and write

are lucky.

the light changed and I went ahead

and turned into a parking spot across the

street

where the song ended and

Mexican Radio started

and it occurred to me that every time

I hear that song on the radio

I’m somewhere prominent:

the sky to the west

ripping lines across

in pink, purple, orange

and grey

this bizarre

and magic

desert thing

above the dirt

and fields

and addicts.

Back home under The Glenlivet

and

Vicodin

Moon

counting the beauty

in Coltrane’s

Greensleeves

behind these keys,

counting

the bones

counting

the teeth

the words

that move the

blood back home

and the glory

of our time.

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.

There you go again, girl,

Plyin’ me with oversalted ghetto-hop,

Expiration date: 100 years back.

New-girl wooin’ me with floral adagios,

Sweepin’ me into an autumn breeze.

You, still ridin’ my broken back,

Ragin’ over last year’s burger menu.

Dragon-brass liftin’ me

Into the blue heights.

Earthen percussion punchin’ the clouds,

A serenade of atmospherics squeezin’ out next year’s rain.

Gregorian incantations rockin’ the stained glass,

Swellin’ the city walls waaay out past the English border.

Neural fibrillation aflare,

Strokin’ me out one last note.

Under your spell, girl,

I fold and lilt.

In her arms I die

The sour sweetness of a small death,

Pushing up a field of lavender,

Scenting the heavens once again.

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.

My thots, the color of forgotten vodka.

Snow-blind to all good.

Black powder running in pipes,

A ticking time bomb, impatient.

[$#2wtJWU^963$] must die.

Else learn to feel the heat of thot,

The sleeting of emotion

That defines one as normal.

Become one with others.

The sweet taste of love at first sight,

Beyond me, I don’t know when.

Since the killing days that thrilled so,

Crushed nerves into soup,

All pain highways dissolved,

Emptiness prevails.

One distant hope left.

A diamond, hidden for a lifetime,

Washes ashore on a night of fortune,

Consumes the evil dead air,

Reclaims what was lost,

Replenishes all thots.

The promise of dawn, colored.