Golden

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.

Eating edibles by the ocean

Her sun kissed skin

My wind swept hair

Eating edibles by the ocean

So happy we’re here

the bridge to Angel Valley

I set my intention

crossed the bridge to Angel Valley

unknowing of what was to come

but fully away of what I was leaving behind

I stood grounded, cool and calm

released of all tension

as if a lifetime had come undone.

It’s there I let go

of all those old ways of being

shed that snake skin feeling

and came back from beyond the pine

into that crystalline light

of my own healing.

rawhide

I’ve tried on many different skins

and ended up in this one,

stretched at the waist

twisted and torn

ready and willingly

back for more, more, and more

staples and stitches

dimples for dimes

tenderly oiling this rawhide of mine.

Straight to the point.

Soak

your feet

for close to an hour

in hot water

then

peel back

the skin

flaking, like

skin does

dead

after soaking your foot

in hot water

close

to an hour,

then write that way.

Peer Pressure is an Infinite Thing.

Lots of makeup.
Lots and lots of makeup.
To invent the perfect you.

That stuff clogs your pores you know.
Believe it or not.
I wore makeup too.

But nobody told me
it didn’t match my skin tone.
Nobody but a few.

You can’t break a kid’s spirit like that.
It’s unnatural.
But that’s what we do.

That’s what’s beautiful?
I beg to differ.
That’s not the perfect you.

But it’s under there.
Somewhere.
Working harder every day.

In your passing: for Alvaro

Listening to Rob Zombie.

You dug his artistry.

I bob my head compulsively.

Go figure.

And in this moment, I’m reminded.

Of your grace.

Some people have it,
you had it.

Though I never told you, it was clear
you had no intention of being graceful.

It’s just something we’re born with.

No matter the number of tattoo
that cover our skin.

No matter the loony stories
we tell ourselves to get by.

It’s sort of an unspoken connection.

And when you smiled you meant it.

When you frowned, it was for just reason.

In retrospect, our time knowing one another
was shorter than most.

And after College, we only spoke via
likes and shares.

But nonetheless, your spirit breathes on.

Like the orchestral breakdown in, The Man Who Laughs.

You did and still do inspire me.

I see this now.

So in my thanks, I know you’d just laugh
and say,

“Ah Dave! I love you, you crazy bastard!”