maybe its nothing

the hissing beat
skids and slips
or is that
scratching on the tiles?

the internet router
blinks and clicks. . . . .
behind the stucco
something smiles

maybe a leak
behind the wall
or maybe it’s nothing -
nothing at all

maybe that ticking
that clicking
that pricking
maybe that flicking
or picking
or sticking
is nothing more
than something tricking -

tricking my tired mind
into thinking
about a something
somewhere

winking

maybe
from the other room
there is no thing
i spoke too soon
holding steady
behind the door
nothing lurks
for me i’m sure

there’s nothing there
no not a thing
waiting patiently
to spring
or touch my hand
as i reach for the light
and nothing will crawl
in my ear at night
and nothing will darken
a hundred dreams
nothing
sits
in my head
and screams

a sleeping house
a moonlit street
dry mouths open
with a creak
eyes on the ceiling
stop and stare
and nothing
is moving
everywhere

right table, wong kok

the policeman grabs the walnut shrimp and brags about take-downs
the fire chief spins the lazy-susan and passes chow fun around
the zionist jokes about the war and no one understands
the plates are full around the table except for the military man’s
the tea is poured without a splash by the blackwater volunteer
the kid flicks the blade beneath the table, silent so no one can hear
the fish sauce and rice are gobbled down fast by the guy with the flag on his truck
and everyone scowls as the bum from the lot asks around hungry-eyed for a buck
the deputy chief eyes the bubbling pot while keeping his ear to the ground
he gives a salute to the table on the right and makes sure all is safe here downtown

comeuppance 1

the big one
finally hit LA
the prisons crumbled
filling the streets
with tens of thousands
of non-violent drug offenders

mind on the hooch

booze ain’t fruit punch
but it stained you red all the same
like cheap paper towels
your skin blots blood
seeping through in patches
angry vessels bursting

swollen and spanked
your face is a pained pink
a shade your prom picture
wouldn’t recognize

glassy eyed
dry tongued
no one can follow
a damn thing you say
words in a blur
mouth running wild
stains on the brain
your mind on the hooch

seed the ground, salt the soil

they pulled up Magnolia Ave.
with a hard tug that set the old houses
and cramped apartments on their ears
old people flew off their porches
still fanning themselves
limp dogs bounced on their heads
then kept yelping
they’ll all be swept under the freeway
dumped in the valley
or scattered to the wind
fanning SSI checks like propellers
floating to earth with a prayer and a thud

they pulled up Magnolia
to pave it anew
even the manager at Wendy’s took note
ordered more baked potatoes
peeled off the EBT sign
advertised WiFi
evicted the Pips, the Supremes, and the Miracles
and tuned in to the indie rock station
no one tapped their toes

Magnolia Avenue is a strip of rubble
unearthing potential
and job opportunities
the lucky ones
don piss-yellow security jackets
for securing the corners
hushing and ushering
the laughing screaming drinking soliciting
unlucky ones
off their bus benches
away from sober terrified newcomers
without hiccup

Magnolia used to be a bumpy street
before it was yanked up
smashed up
then evened
flat as a freeway onramp
new cars lift off
the teflon tarmac
soaring smooth
awayawayaway
at amnesiatic speed

Magnolia Ave. was a dump
but trees recall clunky ice-cream truck lullabies
faded bruises remember that funky road
sundays mornings can’t help but hum to high heaven
there were rust machines scowling on front lawns
limping dogs who hollered hoarse in the morning
porch curmudgeons who did not forget faces
there were snarling bars on windows and gates
with paint chipping off their limbs
or rust-flaking into flower beds
ugly and gnarled
but at least those
you could to hold on to

bushido fart

his second grade butt
was flat on the floor
his knees were up
so maybe he knew it was coming
he did not flinch
or laugh
or squirm
or try to stop it
maybe second graders
don’t have fart stopping muscles
or shame
or maybe he was deaf

but his hands were on his chin
and he looked like he was listening
while the sensei
talked about character
and the strength of spirit
that comes
from overcoming fear

like a veteran trumpeter
who muffles his horn
to amplify the sound
so did this young master
angle his instrument
against the ground
to make a soft tweet
into a rumbling toot
that stopped the class
a thousand small bombs
exploding in his pants

the room shook
while the kids laughed
slapping the floor
and howling
but the musician
did not stir
or smile
or put his legs back together
no
he remained upright
and stoic
a fighting spirit
burning in his eyes
expanding in his heart
just released
out the wrong end

milk and cheese go to the museum

missed the turnoff
parked the hooptie
made our entrance
in the museum
large king taco soda in hand
sucked from the straw
told the usher
‘we wanna see people
doin it’
he said
‘you must mean
the ancient indian romantic art section
right this way’
we saw a drawing
of a woman with
giant tits
and snickered
we saw a photo
of a skull and severed hand
and snickered some more
til the guards snickered too
we agreed
that the angels of virtue and honor
looked like the snobby bitches we went to high school with
finally made it to the ancient art section
saw some sculptures
of people doin’ it
saw some big statues
that were really dildos
agreed that the goddess of destruction
picking her teeth
was the best one
decided we would always be old crones
uncompromising
making loud diarrhea noises in public
listening to each other tell the same jokes
maybe we could still run away and be artists
we picked carnitas from our teeth
and laughed with onion breath
in front of the gift shop
til they sent us home

light touch

the harp is strung with telephone wire
the pen is full of tar
the crickets chirp in an amplifier
the moonbeams, stuffed in a jar

the heart is not warmed with a blowtorch
the soul is not moved by a crane
the readers prefer to gouge their own eyes out
to spare themselves the pain
of reading your suck-ass poems

rid-

it does not creak or pop when it bends
bowing at the hip by its fleshy hinge
the skin around its face is peeling
a double chin that bleeds in ravaged bitten spots
it wears a crescent toupee made of grime
maybe scratched from a charred pot bottom
or dug up by dandelion soil,
or mashed from spent coffee grounds
a witch could reach for its plumpness
but grasp a clean chicken bone
poked through the bars instead
wet, its clothes hang loose around it
sagging in bloated folds
it is a spaceman
an affirmation
the first inked identification
tilted it questions,’who, me?’
fallen, upside down, it disapproves
chewed
moist
wrinkled
where does it live?
in the place
you know best

reflections 2060

we used to have many names for them. they weren’t all called sparrows.
they were pigeons sometimes, cardinals, i think, eagles
they used to be different colors. you could put one of their feathers behind your ear. we used to say they were even beautiful-

we had swatters for flies and ways to break rats necks, but not sparrow-traps.
no, we were not familiar with the feeling of teaspoons of air expelled underfoot
forced from a sparrow’s lungs. we did not do these red boot dances and pick beaks out of our soles. we did not stomp sparrows, i recall. i do not think we stepped on them at all.

we did not fumigate trees, or sing songs about the silence of the woods, or talk about the sky as clean and sparrow-free.
‘free as a…..sparrow’ i think we would even say. they reminded us of freedom, imagine that.

there were people who would let them sit, ‘perch’ – we’d say, on their shoulders
and feed them from their own human hands and speak to them and sing with them
even keep them as pets. and the city would never haul these people away for contamination.

one time it was ok to love a sparrow- when did it change? when did we set it straight-
when anything that could fly to escape we somehow learned to hate?