ronald reagan

he was an
anti-beatnik, black
listing, GE funded,
party hopping,
union
breaking,
commie-
smashing, horseback
riding, fear inciting,
extravagance
chasing,
dehumanized,
white wallet,
nuclear dud;
a well spoken
phony actor
that be
came
president of
the united
states
of america.

running on batteries

my phone is dead, suddenly i'm not so smart anymore.

short hair

in the mirror i see
what the winter has done to me

dark purple bags
emphasizing a tired
unfocused glaze of
cold bruised questions.

a lock of
hair grown long
like a buried
tumbleweed
piled in the back pages
in some old trunk
somewhere.
deserted in a mine field.
ditched at the movies
its the same.

moments of
spontaneous
feeling.
a sudden change
for diamonded eye
summer
days when
the shade
echoed
the death of
a specimen.

a navy blue soul
made to believe
in words
rich with
an alluring
lack of poise.
longing for warmth.
the foreman
every couple months.
this is a time i will remember.

snip. snip.
birds coughed
the day i cut my hair off.

cigarillos negros

a fake victorian streetlight loses its purpose below the old firehouse sign scaling the brick. the great fireproof hotel hosted early motion pictures and touring theatrical productions, filling nine hundred seats with big back pocket socialites mingling with the big city. it was a taste of the arrogant air. now, the gray sign hangs rusted and frail, shielding the same colored rain from my head as i wait for the night owl. my canvas feet soak up the puddles that are being splashed their way, and water drips from the middle of my faded blue hood. and to think, i'm standing in front of the only firehouse in town that didn't burn.

the sidewalk bunched with sunken eyed button ups hailing cabs in their crocodile skin shoes, as if proud enough of themselves to still be out at night looking for a certain love. the tearing of the passing cars on the pavement sounded like newspapers being ripped to shreds. headlines of wrongful arrests and football scores scattered the soaking streets. all the while, a young latino smoker rounds the corner of the great fireproof hotel extending a black umbrella, with dark wings spread out protecting the cigarette smoke from certain disintegration. coasting through the air like golden robins, we're tangled. a pair of two worlds that are intense and strange, complete only in our own heads. we watch each other with a sharp, corner eyed stare that leaves the pit of my stomach feeling empty and bare until finally, we both board the bus, silently paying our fare.

i sit down in the first open seat in the aisle, quickly shifting over to the window, almost as an invitation. the discolored fingers of the smoker tap the swinging handle hanging from the other side of the bus, a transparent ring shining in the dull light. if not for the swindled hours of our day, how could our eyes recognize the stillness of a wild love? looking out through the glass, i watch the racing raindrops stream down the reflection of my cheek.

"tenth avenue." (the first words). i flee as the doors open, the rain falling a little harder than before. looking over my shoulder, i catch a dark silhouette of the androgynous smoker, puffing away as if blowing into the face of a solitary love but where do we hold the beloved before they fade?

a new, peculiar loneliness tantalized me on the cold traipse home. dirty water trickles from the gutter, my front porch light left on and i sink my soaking shoes into the welcome mat and consummate the keyhole.

dictator on the blacktop

a crisp cold breeze
brushes his cal lick back
and forth,
swaying between his focused,
yet comfortable
eyes.
meeting with a mirror
image, only these rings
glaring with
the strongest desire
to swear out loud.
but he can't say certain
bad words.
he just
couldn't.

echoing from within his young brain,
rules to the game,
his rules.
he goes,
"underhand only,
no spuds on A,
tsunamis,
electric lines, shoe shiners,
magic box, bus stops, and tea parties
are ok. no rainbows
or re-do's,
and no cheap sutff!"
he chuckles as he rubs
his hands off on
the muddy rubber ball.
he has certain thoughts in his mind,
enough to encourage
the tattered at the knees
blue jeans
old sneaks,
pavement pounding nosebleeds.
this is where he gets greedy,
"A gets two dictatorships and
B,
gets one."

robins pluck out the worms
from the moist dirt,
eventually,
scared off by a charging
troop of children
shooting play guns.
what was i aiming for when i was younger?
i can't remember anymore.

"and that's not fair."
if he were to cheat,
who could stop him?
beyond the fence,
two dogs being walked on leases,
chained around their necks, bark
in each others faces,
drool, drenched
frustration.
instinctively proving something,
or at least trying.

before the sorry ones
could speak up;
"democracy,
who thinks that was out of bounds?
raise yours hands."
the bell rings.
it's too late.
some kids start to cry,
being all recess the loser.
preyed on by the one with the ball,
the two-timing, freckle faced gumdrop,
the dictator on the blacktop.
one to conquer them all.

ohio posh

today in ohio
posh people from ohio
voted against
the poor people
from ohio
to help
the poor people
from ohio
tomorrow,
or to pay off
the posh
today.

valley of kunar province

we embark on our daybreak journey through the mountains
in search for firewood.
i can hear my mother telling me to,
"it's getting cold now" she would say.
i'm accompanied by nine other poor, young boys,
all complaining about our sisters
and school days at the orphanage.
we're tired.
we're rather be falling asleep under passing trees.
over the hills,
black and flying,
we're confronted by helicopters.
we see a bright green flash
and rockets are fired.
branches and shrapnel,
and only my one friend survives.
what will my twelve sisters do?

wildflower

inside of her

poached the absolute necessity of change
the pulling of her youth. like the instinctive urge
of a six-year old for an impromptu
hair-cut. standing on phonebooks
to see herself in the mirror.
dead hair falls
to the floor like molted feathers
the shade of her adolescence.
the dirty blonde sun
she so carelessly holds
in her hand.
not a care, not a worry.
i can't think of a more honest way of living.
yet her illicit heed coaxed only herself
the lone wildflower
standing in a wrought field
allowing the breeze
to unravel her mind
releasing into the air the gaiety
she so keenly embodies.
through her wild eyes
her wild mind;
i see her corolla
unprotected and bright
not a cloud in the summer night
to shade her beauty.
all she asks is to dance like a child
beneath the soft sound of her breath
like a secret
or like a promise
both of which her mouth never speaks.
she's never heard
of war
or of death
only thoughts of star-gazing
in bloom, teacup vision
unkempt and alive.