You can sense it you know,
yourself shutting down—again
with the change of scenery, again
with the change of heart.
It’s like trying to stop a freight train
running yourself empty, till
all there is is but to explode.
It’s a very empty place to be living.
It’s a very empty place to be born.
It’s a beautiful fall day, though, isn’t it?
Isn’t it beautiful, this
in depth exhibition of yourself—
without the guts, with all the answers
and nothing all that good say.
I would rather be
a poor man
with a rich soul,
than a rich man
with a poor heart.
For the majority of my adult life I have lived in impoverished communities, mainly because it’s what I am able to afford. I have seen, felt, and heard the cries of both men and women, alone in gutters, pulling the arms of children onward to a life not many of us will ever lead. Some of course have made choices leading them down this path, others are facing hard times, but I see the majority of them, just as I see myself, as I see my loved ones, as common people. So regardless of the outcome of an election, regardless of the winning or losing side, I still see many men, women, and innocent children who will continue to suffer either way. I do my best to spare what little I have to offer, be it a dollar or two, a bottle of water, or even a smile which seems to go even further than the former because at least they know that they are seen, and like so many of us often feel, we like those less fortunate are not forgotten. So just be a decent person, treat people with dignity and respect, regardless of their current standings in life. Do what you can to leave the world a better place than it was yesterday. And be well, my friends. Be humble and aware. And give more than you receive, when possible. With love, gratitude, and thanks to all who’ve graced my path, and who I continue to think of daily.
There’s a sewer pipe
in the dark, by the L.A. river
like a grave in the ground
where people sleep
by the highway, by the neighborhood
where pumpkins soon
will be replaced by
feasts of Turkey, stuffing, corn
and carefully locked doors,
then to be replaced by balsams and fern
white lights and tender eyes
of Christmas morning,
regardless of the hole by the L.A. river
where people sleep
live, and love—and pray, regardless
of the election, regardless
of the president
I still weep.
Do you?
Probably the hardest lesson
to learn is that, in life
you can do everything right,
and still get it wrong.
Every morning
theres’s a woman
pruning bush, or
a bush pruning
woman, whether or not
either is real to me
it’s real to her,
that rose bush
pruned, green grass
now rising wet
in the morning dew
of chimney’s now
smoking, standing
in line at the DMV
with the DUI
unpaid, scratching lotto
old men lifting hats
scratching heads,
wondering like children
where all that hair
goes when it falls out
and if there’ll be
enough water
for the grass, in
the coming July drought,
no matter, still
does the woman prune
as the old me croon—
each mourning.
Tree lined
suburban, shadowed
street signs
stand aloof
in the quiet morning
daylight gloom
of happy homes
opened doors
and kisses. Questions
fall like flower petals
on sidewalks, cracked
by ancient roots
whose planted hands
can only tell
the difference between
early mornings
and daylights answers.
But the sky is new,
and the desert
Golden, only as old
as the moon which hangs
still as the sun
does rise over broken
glass bottles, which dress
Winnetka, asphalt
like a torn evening gown
come morning.
But there are no victims here,
just prisoners of choice,
who wear recycled smiles,
and boil inside.
It is as cold
as a steel locket,
isolation
loosely hangs
two chains from a collar,
white as bone, worn
from the hours, of nuance
carefully placed by the bedside,
waiting to be opened
polished and willing
as obligatory as peace
before, the inevitable dawn
which beckons us to
repeat, our autumnal fall
from the burdens we carry.
Being sober’s
as overrated
as being drunk—
nobody wins.
You just have to live.
Words Of An Average White Male 