They Say:
Hurt people
hurt people.
But when do we stop
hurting?
When do we heal?
Placed on the lower right corner of vehicle’s window
In front of me in drive thru at Jimmy-John’s
Vehicle is all black, a VW SUV, tinted windows
Placard is bright white, big contrast to vehicle
Grabbed my attention, my thoughts
Wish it wasn’t necessary to be said
Wish we lived without its call
Wish we lived in harmony, ALL.
storm sewer stretches round & ribbed
underground, light caught in a smaller
ring down the length of this larger
one in which i fit, crouched, i
creep forward, echos of amphibians’
voices welcoming me into their own
temporary reprieve, algae
moist hollow, August heat overwhelming
pedestrians on the sidewalks but we
below whisper cool reassurances
that summer will not enter here to force
either one of us to have to choose a side
If you don’t
find God on a freeway
in Los Angeles, you’ve
never had a spiritual experience.
Remote qualification took place in
a multilevel “tri-sexual” club,
where anything goes,
with a nice, nasty
dance floor for
vehement grinding
to pounding, loud industrial music.
Mommy and Daddy’s music.
Then, life in my 30’s, coming
into Los Angeles, with a Jeep was
beach air and
highway shimmer,
Church’s Chicken and taquerias,
cholos and señoritas eating
my wife’s white chili out the back,
with the biggest jalapeños
her buck could afford, pumping bass
popping screws, and
Arlo Guthrie mixes with Snoop
and Ice Cube.
God gave her to me
and God took her away, although
she said the Source would take me
first, and nothing,
nothing but this, nothing
but that I’m still most alive on
asphalt spaghetti
where breezes blow
from the West,
where ocean will boil,
the sun takes a skinny dip
and each nipple fizzles.
Let me give the world a gift. More incorruptible than love.”
A perfectly cracked egg for an omelet
Is of no consequence in the hands of the baker.
But a perfect crack when boiled hard
Is dependent upon the maker
