Chex Mix

Sit down for a second, and let me tell you something real quick...

If I had to pick one ingredient, I'd say my favorite part of the Chex Mix is the Rice Chex. I really don't like pretzels in my Chex Mix, but I tolerate them. Because without the occasional pretzel I don't think the toasted Rice Chex would be as exciting. My favorite part of Gardetto's Snack Mix are the little rye chips. Due to their popularity, eventually Gardetto's came out with a bag of nothing but rye chips. Sure enough, after about 3 bites I started to grow really tired of rye chips. They just didn't taste as good. It was too much rye. I missed the other stuff, even the stuff I didn't like. A couple years ago I bought a bag of pistachios without the shells. Yeah, I got tired of those really quick, too. There's something satisfying about the minute amount of labor involved with every crack of a pistachio shell. Having the pistachios handed to me on a silver platter, well... frankly... it sucked. They just weren't as good. So remember to be thankful for all the pretzels and the pistachio shells, and all the things that give us gauges for which to measure the good stuff.  A world full of nothing but RYE is as boring as it sounds, monochromatic, monoaromatic and monosyllabic.

you can do it

don't let ANYONE tell you that you aren't smart enough
or that you're not capable
or that you don't have "what it takes"

to walk around in the street without pants on

ANYONE can do it and so CAN YOU

as long as you have the proper permits.


 .

the rules

the rules say:
DON'T RUN WITH SCISSORS.
but what about really sharp, pointy sticks? like chopsticks?

it seems like they never updated the rule book.
i think it's the same book they've
been using since scissors were first invented and
sharp things simply didn't exist until then.

the rules also say:
DON'T USE A HAIR DRYER IN THE BATHTUB.
even with no water in the tub?

DON'T RUN NEXT TO THE POOL.
what if i'm being chased by a murderer?

DON'T STICK ANYTHING INTO THE MOUTH OF
SOMEONE HAVING A SEIZURE.
it never occured to me to do this and
now i'm super curious.

DON'T CRY OVER SPILLED MILK.
what if the milk killed my brother?

ALWAYS LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE.
what if they're sleeping on your arm and
cutting off the circulation?






 

what could it be

it could be low testosterone.
it could be depression.
it could be allergies.
it could be heart disease.
it could be cancer.
it could be a lack of _______.
it could be too much _______.
it could be the humidity.
it could be anxiety.
it could be money.
it could be love... or the lack thereof.
it could be dehydration.
it could be dry skin.
it could be withdrawal.
it could be anger.
it could be loneliness.
it could be regret.
it could be the guilt.
it could be the food.
it could be the spiders.
it could be the bones.
it could be the muscles.
it could be the neighbors.

or it could just be regular fucking life.

ugh.

The Things you Are!

you're the fittest hog on the pig farm.

you're the cleanest bum by the bridge.

you're the nicest rapist in prison.

you're the hottest milk in the fridge.

and of all the horrible things there are,

you're the best of those horrible things.

you're the fanciest truck stop bathroom,

with the prettiest shower rings.

squinting as a child

there is soft, white, particulate matter
hanging in the air,
like snow without gravity.
sometimes it feels as if i've surrounded myself
with so much of it, I am trapped in a
perpetual cloud of chalk dust.
it's as if I've clapped some erasers together
and the world just froze in that moment.
dry clouds in my eyes that leave me swinging my arms
and grasping for the handrails.
the world a stinging fog.

i sometimes think about Christmas time as a child,
in my parent's old house with the brown shag carpet,
and the really big windows that made me feel so small.
i remember sitting in the living room alone,
squinting my eyes at the Christmas tree,
forcing the lights to bloom and streak within my vision.
i remember when i first realized that i could do this,
that i could make lights smear by squinting my eyes.
that i could change the entire world by something
as simple as pushing my eyelids together.

but now, here i am as an adult, sitting in all this dust,
wondering how i make the world shift again,
with the simplicity and ease that i once did as a child.

when you're an adult, you harden your thinking
to the experiences and environments you've
been exposed to. 
the world doesn't change when you
squint your eyes,
you do not make the world blur,
it is you that change.
it is your eyes that are different. 

although there are exceptions to the rules,
it is my position that the inability to believe
your own fairy tales
and follow your own inner dialogue to
strange and unsual places,
beyond the realms of explanation,
marks the death of
your imagination.

so go make your own fog
and blur the world
with anything but
your own logic and reason. 

dinner in the yard with old friends

an ashy, rickety, wooden table
sitting on the crest of a mound of silt.
an admiral, velvet window curtain
thrown over the tabletop and
seasoned with grape tomatoes,
wine, bread, and pesto.

a frail breeze to push the music.
the sky's veneer, a net of frosted light,
and then the entire city, in the pinch of a finger,
just sitting there as if we had
something to do with its placement.

a quiet night with old soldiers
gathered around the table.
good friends that have been fighting
the same war for decades,
each through their own glasses,
feeling the world push itself upon them
one at a time,
with an unaplogetic force that
whittles lines near the eyes.

a deep breath into the evening.
into this one quiet night.
it is the way I imagined every night would be
when I was older.
candlelit with friends, wine, music.
simple joy.

and then suddenly I was older.
and mosts night were just nights.
much like how most mail is just mail.
because handwritten letters are rare.
as is this night.

just enough wine to be
glossy and bloom the stars.
just enough breeze to
quiet the neighborhood.
and just enough union to be content
with each other's silence.

simple and quiet.
love and respect,
as subtle as it can be.

the last train engineer

a few miles east,
over the Broadway Extension,
the 3AM train would barrel down.

 it was always on time and
unlike the 7AM,
the 3AM
never
stopped.

its thick whistle blew the duration
of its passing

 and i listened to it every night.

i suppose the engineer,
knew his time was limited
for his responsibilities had been diminishing
with the rise of automation.

 and so, sitting in a dark engine,
a lone passenger watching the world smear,
there was probably no sweeter thing
than to crack that hard cable
and stain the night with sound.

 a last desperate cry for the ghost trains. 

another heavy, steel toast to the failed spirits
of John Henry and Casey Jones.

The Middle Ground

some poets... well...

they write way over here,
on the right side of the page.
you know, for dramatic effect.
because English text ain't supposed to be
way over on the right side,
all by itself.

it's supposed to be over HERE.
on this side, where
it has room to run across the entire page if it really wants to.

but sometimes it isn't sure what to say or where to be.
so it just sits in the middle,
and pouts.

Too Much Neutral

a beige pot for a brown plant
filled with sand
being carried by a tan man
in a camel shirt
and some khaki pants.

just too much neutral to stand.


 

Oath of the Free

Adrift my mind, daily steals
the line, the rod, the fish, the reel
though fortune blessed my spirit free
I'm chained to passion drowning me

No salvage for a listless soul,
no change to pay this aging toll
a worthy memory, marked to be
strong as the ship that charges me. 

I'll file my nails to the hilt
and saw the shackles hitched to guilt
fight hordes of voices, unresigned
to live a life that's undefined.
to live a life that's undefined. 

One Night's Motel Sleep

One Night's Motel Sleep

Everything hurts tonight.
Even the ceiling fan is off balance
and has an unfamiliar hum

as if it's been spinning for far too long.

There's so much dust that even
the dried drips of spilled paint
that have dribbled down
these motel walls
from a thousand prior paint jobs,
leaving veins of hard, white tears
crusted to the drywall,
carry dust.
These dried paint drips are like little, old rivers.
I sometimes push them with my fingertips.
They are dried and yet they still
give under pressure a bit.
Hardened over time
yet still soft inside.

I briefly close my eyes and
colorful static flutters about inside my eyelids.
I cannot escape this visual noise.
It is not black with my eyes closed.
It's as if my eyes are
attempting to receive a broadcast
but have no idea that the connection has been cut.
I am off the air.

I open my eyes, get up from my chair
and look over at the bed.
I see you lying there, asleep.

I light the room with my phone
and stumble quietly forward.
I slide into the bed slowly as not to wake you.
And then I kick the night stand and
EVERYTHING falls off.

I am suddenly a tambourine player.
Or a blacksmith.
Or a bell choir.

I check to see what damage has been done.
Nothing.
Everything is fine.

I lie down,
and just before I attempt to close my eyes once again,
I think of how grateful I am
that you are not something else,
like a bag of dirty laundry or a sack full of groceries.

I think of how grateful I am that the sheets
are moving with your breath and that
you are alive and not dead like
most people that have walked on this Earth.

I then slowly lie my arm over your shoulder.
And I close my eyes.
And the static inside subsides.
And the fan's noise turns to music.
And the paint seals us in.

And I sink with you
into another
wonderful
night.

thicker skin

Scrips, Scrapes, and Scraps

if all you get are scratches and nicks
then you'll be easily cut by a dull twig.
you have to damage yourself repeatedly.
you have to shock yourself awake
until you can't remember
being soft.

you may lose something in this process.
and it probably won't feel very good.

but you must do it.

because if you don't learn to get cut
and heal from it
you'll eventually be stirred into a salty liquid
and poured slowly
over a better man's
steak. 




 

The "Salsa Bar"

The Salsa Bar

they called it a "Salsa Bar"
but to me, it was a battlefield
from World War I
with hunks of flesh and blood and
scraps of carcass splattered
across an exhausted landscape 

they called it a "Salsa Bar"
but to me, it was a 5 year old's art project
with streaks of dry markers
haphazardly scribbled across the paper
and beads of glue with random macaroni
smashed into a series of nebulous blobs

they called it a "Salsa Bar"
and the sign said "SALSA".
but if you stood behind the sign
the sign said "ASLAS",
which stands for
Australian Society for Laboratory Animal Science

There were rabbits and mice minced to confetti
and surgical tools scattered among the dead
and the metal operating table
 reeked of historical nightmares
all in the name of research.

but still…
even with having read this document
to the management… 

they called it
a "Salsa Bar".

The Man at the I-5 & Broadway Exit

The Man at the I-5 & Broadway Exit

there by the exit off interstate 5 and Broadway Ave
sits the man with the diesel mind,
broken down on a milk crate,
grass in his dreadlocks,
trousers at his knees,
screaming on the outside,
shaking on the inside,
and being stabbed by invisible shanks
all over his body.

he is a reservoir of pure madness,
a stew of disorders, schizophrenia being
at the top of his recipe.

his wiring diagram resembles a thicket.
cables and plugs jammed into the wrong outlets.
voltage surging where there should be none at all.
a tangled mess of wires and braids,
leads and filaments, sparking and firing,
for no reason at all.

i imagine that
inside him are vast institutions,
where fires have erupted within their
hallways, lobbies and offices
and the patrons of these buildings
are now tearing each other a part,
screaming in agony,
destroying each other and their surroundings
in their vain attempts to escape
his mind.

i have seen him off and on over the past two months.
and he is always screaming
and chanting and twitching.
a machine of complete and total unrest.

he is so disturbed that
even in a place where the mad seemingly reside at every intersection,
the often apathetic and callused citizens of Los Angeles
take notice when they pass him by.

because this one stands out.

his skin is as black as licorice
and his eyes as white as ice,
bulging and fragile, like eggs.
rarely blinking and frozen in place
as if shocked awake
by an unseen predator.

there is no touching this man.
there is no communicating with him.

the motor to his escalator
broke its belt years ago
and sent his jagged stairs flying 
down, down, down
at a record speed,
down, down, down
where they finally
slammed into that recessed crevice
of mysterious light
deep below the floor.

that crack where the stairs disappear.

that line where most of us step over
and quickly walk away.

The Gnats

The Gnats

we felt like it was over
and suddenly gnats appeared in
our home
and they wouldn't go away

a commitment was made to remove the gnats
and move forward

but still, the gnats were there,
one in every corner,
by the bookcase,
near the window,
hovering in front of the television
like dust

we tried flushing the sink with bleach
and boiling water.
perhaps they were coming from the drain? the trap?

or maybe it was the kitchen?

we removed the pears
we removed the watermelon
we removed all the sweet things
in our efforts
to control the gnats.

but still, the gnats.

vibrating in the air
like gun powder.

specks of Sharpie dots.
flecks of black sesame.

always there.

the gnats.

and so, defeated,
we gave up.
we slumped over
and we waited.
and we waited some more.
and weeks went by.
and eventually, the gnats just went away.
and we didn't have to do anything at all.

the gnats just left.

and the air was clear.

and i assumed it was our patience
that got the best of them.

or perhaps our apathy.

or maybe...

we just stopped
noticing
the gnats.

Ditch Digger

Ditch Digger

I used to be a panhandle ditch digger
for the Contiental Gas Company.
At about 6AM I was dropped in an endless
field with no fences,
placed onto a trenching machine
that moved about 6 inches a minute,
and asked to drive miles over the
open country of Oklahoma
until dusk.

There was a lot of time to think
sitting out there.

The land is so flat
that if you stand on a soup can
you can see the shadows of massive clouds,
sliding slowly over the plains
like fresh, wet stains seeping into fabric.

I don't remember much concerning what I
thought about out there.

I only remember WHAT I DID.

I learned to juggle
dried cowshit.

And
I sang to the cows.

And occasionally,
I almost died
by trenching through unmarked, existing gas lines
or driving the trencher into rain-filled ravines.

It was fascinating being out there.
I cut my teeth and tasted
a life I could never commit to.
I moved through it like a strange explorer,
hired to study and
survey the local flavors.

But I don't remember anything
about what I thought about
while I was out there despite the fact that
sitting on that ditcher
by yourself
and thinking
made up about 90 percent of that job.

And I suppose that's an important lesson.

You don't remember thoughts.

You only remember your actions.

And you best be filling your life with as many
actions that you can fit on your plate.

Or you might as well dig your own ditch
and think long and hard about it

until you get dizzy.

and just fall right in.

the pizza bird

a lone seagull
in a vast and empty parking lot
standing there like an idiot
with a single slice of pizza
hanging from its beak
like a fatuous tongue 

we approached it with the van,
circled it,
and it took flight.

quickly, I hit the pedal
and brought us up to speed
to soar along side it 

and there i watched
as we floated together,
this rigid seagull,
frowning and gliding gracefully over the pavement
draping that perfect triangle of
greasy pizza
from its clenched nib,
flapping in the desert wind. 

man,
the human race is so fucked.

Leaves

Right now...
I feel like an old, wet, bag of leaves.
A bag of leaves that has been sitting outside for a year.
And kids keep hitting me with sticks.

I am tired.
When I sit down I melt.
I BECOME a bowl of ice cream.

I melt and collapse and
SLIIIIDDDEEE down the edges of the house

into my pillow.

I grab my pillow.
I hold it as if it were a person.
I bring it close.
I love it as if
it knows me.
Because I know it, so very well.

It is my best friend.

Worn out.

I need a vineyard of steel rebar to hold me up.
A kind heart to soak in the day.
An old basket to catch the sighs.
A parachute to set me down slowly.
The tiny click of a door shutting softly.
A whisper on my neck.
And a thread of soft music woven
into a warm summer quilt,
fresh out of the oven,
and ready to save me
from the world.

No Clue.

Where'd I put my keys?

"They're in your hand."

Where's my sunglasses?

"On your head."

Where's my jacket?

"Around your waist."

Where am I?

"I have no idea."