in LA

Are the women who drive

with dogs on their lap

Who at stop signs make

no attempt to stop

Cutting me off are these women

with Versace glasses to block the sun

Haunting amounts of eyeliner

blush, and lipstick the color of

raw meat

These are the same women who at home

have too many pairs of shoes

and never enough

And the fluffy little designer poodle

primped and propped high

on the lap of their would be master,

if these women weren’t blowing their

alimony checks on Princess’s groomer

They’re either on their phone at red lights

Cutting me off in the wrong lane

Or cutting me off at four way stops

Princess with her beady little eyes

And her dirty little asshole

Sitting like a queen

upon

the biggest assholes in LA

And she’s smiling at me

Cause even she knows

the irony

One of these days

I’ll have to say goodbye

It’s not that it’ll be too hard

It’s just that it’ll be time—

Throwing rice and waiting,

for the pigeons to die.

Please.

Don’t make me feel worse

as I just feel so poor already.

My limbs are weak and my mind,

mush…You can stay a while sure

but like the day you’ll go again,

sinking with the sun. Feeling forlorn?

And again my God! Frightened

to see the end? And frightened to begin?

Well that makes two of us lately til

tomorrow comes much quicker when

yesterday’s a passing feeling.

What have you doom and gloom?

Haven’t you been listening? Go away

I’m tired. Besides I’ve got a 7am call

and I plan on being paid overtime.

Yet you’re so tempting my dear

misery in waiting, and you’re knocking like

a hopeful neighbor.

Effortless is your kiss, it’s aim

a mother’s prayer before bed.

Each time I think it’s over

It seems I’ve just begun

A chorus full of clover

Was banished in the sun

For means of which to bury

The damage I had done

The answer’s in the soil

From roots I’d given up

A breeze of dandelion

Spread seed in which to till

Much better men than me

Have offered up their will

I fear in faith my effort

Is nothing to be bought

Sometimes it’s rough to read

Sandpaper written thought

So if and when it’s over

I promise not to pry

Disaster’s second nature

I’m not that kind of guy

We felt almost alive

On the off chance we were dying

If I said I never loved you

We both know I’d be lying

We always looked unclear

On days we lived together

While actors played our parts

They saw each dirty pleasure

With no time left to move

We sauntered in the sun

Two statues out of place

Stone faced we turned to dust

At some point we learn

to limit the pain we allow.

Since no one forces us to feel,

we must choose what

and how to suffer.

Brilliantly we will,

whether we like it or not,

allow a chosen few

behind our walls and beyond.

In a way, aren’t we our own vault?

Much less private than we dare to admit

and much more private than we offer to share.

Each his own archive—

Each his own judge—

We can only tolerate so much.

So that if and when these walls are forced,

pried open like steel bars, we’ll know.

And it’s there you’ve got to choose.

Do I sit and suffer knowingly, or

stand up and face my keeper.