Sunday, January 13, 2013

18/100


Where the ailanthus grow large
Larger than I have ever seen
In this place I inhabit
Like some poverty dream

Datura are running
as fast as they can
their anthem is stunning
in this forgotten land

we buy our food
nonexistent in fund
lying about ailments
and things we’ve never done

conditioned in this place
its common in this land
to cry out like a child
and then claim to be a man

the roads are hopelessly broken
where dreams do not take flight
playing this serenade
with the people of the night

in the night Datura open,
louder than the train
silent in the darkness
relinquishing us again

the tears for the fallen
that haunt this place so deft
for a world that wastes nothing
for a realm with nothing left

within these cold nights
all that slips away
coyotes carrying on
for the coming of a new day

Friday, January 4, 2013

Under the hunter/still in the hood


Underneath the great hunter
The trains roll by, their horns cutting through the night, like the powerfully-dull whack of a machete
Across the street drug dealers …do their thing.
I hear dogs
whimpering in high pitched squeaks

like nettles stinging my ears
and seem so much like a scarecrow
standing in the yard
Leaning on my shovel, in awe of how many people will buy a pint of hard liquor before noon.
Dumbfounded by the regally blind, that constantly mob past
Unable to see the desert tobacco, for more than anything than a passing glance
The ephedra grows unruly as the nights and days merge
Conflicted within extremes that they will shed integrity
As their skin, leaving a crumpled mass in the skipping sand
Willing to do whatever is necessary
Surviving in this world for another day 

and I am among them
i am afflicted
survivalist,
landing like some windblown seed
from a jungle
exactly like this one
I am glad we have shared in this experience
because I have seen how orchids are as cactus
with innocence obliterated
on those balmy nights
where our flowers bloom
to the sounds of human chaos
offspring are of secondary importance
provided there's enough water
as we travel by night to conserve energy
our skin becoming leathery and worn
as we rub it upon the fabric of this realm
the smell of colitas
the distant crack of gunfire
somewhere in the distance the burros
run around under the stars and the coyotes try to eat them
occasionally you can hear of their victory
like whoop-whoop of some neighbor going to jail
under the flashing lights
the air pollution that lingers
like the ringing of the trains brakes splitting the air.
the hills rise like dark islands out of a never ending sea of lights
somewhere, it is all as it should be


Creeping Shadows


the shadows creep slowly
The road home is long
the bass has all but faded
we loiter to carry on

the letters still wet
plastered upon plastic walls
feeling nothing but prowess
echo a helicopter’s call

this is war
for the art we defend
the consequence of all-
in a life we never lend

it is the song of an alpha
the verse of king
in the shadows of a voice
with words that none ever sing

never backing down
but knowing when to run
in the blue hour of memory
snapping as the recoil of a gun

like the pawns in some game
hidden within this fa├žade
as ants are to men
as men are to god

like some twisted folk hero
some cheap marionette
hiding in plain sight
where we check and then bet

make no mistake in this game
the stakes will run high
the end is always the same
across the river where they lie

the song carries on
silently in the night
with the words of my hands
sitting just out of sight