Wednesday, February 26, 2014


Quaint stops on the side of the road, diners cater to the new world vision; post modern acolytes find new prayers, a decent meal for less than six dollars and a bottomless cup of coffee. Eat of the body, ingest enough caffeine, and anyone can wire themselves a demon.
Another happy employee of this place comes by and begins my never ending cup of coffee and sets down the silverware before moving onto her next disciple. I collect my thoughts of the day, the routine is the same, get some food, write some words, and the questions keep on pilling up.
“How ya’doin tonight?” Sophie is one of the many waitresses here; she’s a priestess in this twisted ceremonial metaphor. Over the years of my attending the service here, she has always been a constant fixture, like the plastic ferns and the yellowed portraits of local birds. “Haven’t seen ya’friends here’ya inna long time.”
“Yeah, I know.” I smile and nod. I could probably write her life story from the simple conversations I’ve heard her having with the regular patrons. She’s friendly with me through association; I’ve never attended one of her conversational confessions.
“Ya’al’ready order?” She’s is a mother of three boys and is married to the father of the oldest.
“Yes. Thank you.” I almost ask her how she’s feeling; three months ago Sophie went to the doctor and they found something “not to pleasant.” The question simply sits in the back of my mind as I take another sip of coffee.
“O.K. hun, your food should be ready shortly. I’ll go check.” Up until that unpleasantness she worked all week, after that, she appeared sporadically and a whole month passed without her appearing at all.

“Thank you.” I remember the time her sister had to put her kids up and Sophie adopted them; I could ask her how that has been working out. Her eldest son is playing football in high school; her husband got a promotion, she used to know someone who knew someone whose mother slept with Frank Sinatra. Sophie is already behind the waitress station before I could even consider any of these questions.
She moves on. Another table with other disciples. She finishes her priestly duties and takes their menus and heads for the kitchen. The plates reflect an exhaustion that is blossoming at a point where the brain meets the spine. Sophie laughs an intimidating guffaw that upends the chatter between most of the patrons. Whomever they are, their time just moved a little easier.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

a day like today.

Sitting on a park bench,
inhibited by my organs.
Virgin of a past age
welcomes the offer of money.
I hear my mother’s voice
telling me to wear clean underwear.

One dollar, two dollar, three dollar, more…
Insufferable questions are asked,

an old woman sings a song
a man asks her for a penny,

This is how I dreamed
a day like today would be.
I fall asleep and gaze at forgotten eternity.

Monday, February 24, 2014

what we learn.

Drove home,
with a banshee at my side,
a loaded gun in the back seat,
and the smell of fire and oil in the air.

The creature in the passenger seat
wails about nothing in particular.
I tell her,
“We’re on the road to Bethlehem, baby.”
She thinks it’s a place to start over.
I know it’s nothing
more than a trailer park
on the outskirts of civilization
with well manicured lawns.

The road cuts ancient lands
that hold the spirits of dinosaurs and Indians, 
paved over swamps,
and bottled up water ways
with the window down it smells like rot
and decay after the rain has fallen.    
History is melting under the tar of 18” wheels.

The sun is cooling behind me,
she refuses to acknowledge its existence;
afraid that it could take her with it,
I tell her it’s a matter of survival, 
no one will miss the man who stumbled across
the great American highway.
Tumbling onto the hood of my car,
breaking him into tiny pieces of blood and bone.

She is not one
to face her own mortal consequences.
I have never been the type
to admit my own faults and un-doings.
What is done is done
and we’re all better off for it.
Driving home, 
a sleeping woman at my side,
a forgotten monster in the back seat.
I must remember 
never to look in a mirror again.



A blind man sits
on the steps to his breathless house.
A dried up farmer holding a box.

This box
contains all that is left
of his life.

He keeps it in a box
so it doesn’t degrade him.
The shiny metallic finish
reflects his face,
showing the lines building
around sunken depressions of skin.
A box with his son’s bones,
the medals of his glorious             
effort to stay alive that failed.
A father knows all who are born must to die.
Promises of victory echoed sounds of tormented pride.
Like stolen stars from a crooked sky.