Dirt and fields and addicts.

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.