Chapter One
Moonlight Vacancy
The Jazz is optimistic,
but I listen to it under
deaf ears.
Ears that have listened
too long to the lies and
the moans of those
aching for more.
For wealth,
for stability,
for the end.
They cry
every day
and never get
their way.
Then there are
the fortunate
who cry for what
they do not have.
They are cats atop a fence
and they don’t let me sleep
at night.
I am a
house cat.
No, maybe
not a cat.
A mouse.
A fat, lazy mouse who’s
too afraid to come out
from the wall.
When cheese falls
I scurry out to catch it,
then race what I can grab
back to my hole to be
sallowed whole.
Then I starve again.
And I go to bed listening to
the rich cats and the poor cats
and wonder how I got so lucky.
Mourning Rain
When I was a child
my mother used to tell
me that whenever it rained
that meant the angels were
crying in Heaven.
I asked her what could
make angels cry and she
used to say it was
all the bad things good
people did, and for the
souls of those who are
called to Heaven too soon.
As I got older I learned
about the water cycle and
the purpose of water on
earth as explained by
science.
But in the week following
my mother’s death, in the
long afternoons I spent
standing over her grave,
I noticed it had rained more
then it ever had before.
In that moment I’d forgotten
all about the sciences and
about the water cycle.
For the first time in
a long time, I believed
in the angels my mother
used to speak of, and
in my heart, I believed
they were crying for her.
Hate, Be A Friend
I can’t seem to
find the words
to describe hate.
It is something
primal, something
basic.
It is neither
complicated
nor complex.
In some cases,
it is incapable
of being understood
and is therefore
unknowable if not
personally experienced.
Fury is a
child of passion
and the cousin
of humiliation.
Humility is the
bastard son of
humiliation who takes
more after its
mother, understanding.
Even still, hatred
is the brother
of anger and
fury, and together
they live beneath
mountains of patience.
And when the
world spitefully calls
down thunder, wakes
up the brother’s
three and brings
forth their wrath,
everyone wonders why,
but can’t find
the reason.
Fire Treasure
At first, the
warm air hit
me, and then the
blue sky, then
the green plains.
At once in
my mind, I
heard violins and
then the passing
of smooth drums.
The xylophone
bounced
with the beat
of the sun,
yet I felt
no updraft.
The day was
singing a tune
as in the
distance the sea
pulled on and off
the sand.
It was a
rhythm I was
used to and
one I had
waited a while
to hear.
It was only
in this place,
at this time,
that I could
hear it, and
away into the
music, I went.
The Pass-Around
When I was
young I used
to think adults
had mean built
into them.
It wasn’t until
I grew up
and got my
mean card that
I found it
was mandatory.
You had to
carry it around
with you and
show your mean
to those who
called you out
on not having
it.
I saw the
mean of plenty
of other people,
even when I
didn’t want to.
In time I
accepted the mean
and figured out
you couldn’t throw
it away.
So as you
grow remember well,
and especially on
the day they
give you your
mean card, it’d
probably be best
just to throw
it away.
Robins In Passing
I always used
to think that
red robins were
immortal, you know?
I used to
think they were
majestic, untamable,
and wise.
Then one day
I was walking
down this side
street and out
the corner of
my eye I
saw one lying
there, dead in
the sand for
maybe an hour.
Its beautiful red
feathers hadn’t faded
in color and
it was the
closest I had
ever gotten to
a robin to
appreciate how orange
its beak was.
Best I could
figure it the
little guy had
gotten hit by
a car and
went flying on
impact.
I remember always
seeing birds dive
in front of
cars right before
they race by
and thinking these
daredevil avians must
sit on the
sidewalks, betting one
another worms and
seeds that they
could fly across
the road without
getting hit.
Maybe this robin
was one of those.
I bowed my
head to the
carcass and kept
on walking.
Five minutes later
I happened upon
the freshly deceased
remains of an
American robin.
Its feet were
scrunched up as
if it was
clawing out to
reach something in
its final moments.
Its colors were
darker than that
of the red
robin, and in
regards to its
passing I have
to say, I
didn’t care as
much.
In Ernest
I think I’d
be better off
in one of
those seaside
communities.
One where I
could drink alone
at night, oversleep,
and then walk
the beaches during
the day.
There I could
linger like Hemingway,
half alive and
admiring the young
girls in yellow
bikinis while I
sip back, becoming
something made up
of wrinkles and
tobacco smoke.
Something made up
of age, and
gruff, and contentment.
There I could
wear cargo shorts
and Hawaiian shirts
with thin, white
wife beaters underneath
every day.
There I could
smoke, discarding the
fear of damaging
lungs that were
once young and
now breath confidently
again.
There I could
kick back and
call myself a
man while I
hide away from
the world.
There I could
be who I
wanted to be
in my old
age.
Single and worn,
leathery and wise.
Who knows if
I’ll ever find
my place on
the beach, or
if I’ll die
trying to get
there.
Roasted Unicorn
Countless species,
one vessel.
The ark is light angelic
wood being cradled on
a world of open seas.
Ninety-nine days ago
we ran out of food.
The lions have eaten
the hippogriffs, and
the crocodiles have
devoured the phoenixes.
I’m told
they were spicy.
As I pacify the other
animals the meat eaters
and I have barbecues
on deck at midnight.
Roasted unicorn is
fucking delicious.
If we don’t reach land
by tomorrow the squirrels
are next on the menu.
The Cabin
Middle-aged men
with blood-red faces
and sky-high blood
pressure belt out the
oldies, hard and loud.
Ghouls, specters of
a dead generation
linger like husks in
a seizure mob on the floor.
They wiggle to the
rapid strum of the
electric guitar, tone
deaf and geriatric.
Their ankles crack
as they hop up and
down, ignorant to
the fact that this
chapel of the blues
was built to inspire
their nostalgia.
Quietly on the side
of a highway road,
their little shack
rumbles, containing
their desire to be
who they once were.
That time is
gone and their
song is ending.
Now they fizzle like
inflatable dummies
in front of car lots,
hoping that in their
loose shake they can
rediscover, relive, or
rejoin the past.
Give up.
The future
is now.
Average Joe
After coming home he
had trouble adjusting.
Boot camp was all
he had known for
months, believing
it had been years.
Before he had left
he had liked cars
and played cops
and robbers with
his buddies on the
playground.
When he came
back he believed
in capitalism and
obsessed over
collecting knives.
He believed boot camp
was life and that anyone
not living like him was
living wrong.
In the end, he convinced
himself he was special and
that it was the world that
was crazy, not him.
To question him
was to question
God and country,
for he believed his
time in camp granted
him status as a soldier.
Despite begging
for an honorable
discharge after
eight weeks in
the heat.
If you see him in
the mall he still
demands to be
called a soldier.
