Picturesque as Postcard

She likes the broken, the little bits

she’s in. Refuse fade to …     define away.  I’ll give you me. There is a reason

for everything.  To say it once, I’ve been sent


like the snow to cleanse myself of me.  Words are water

baptizing you new again.  Really the only songs I sing are



the ones I sing when I think



that I’m alone.  On closer examination, here are

the components of love.  By ourselves we smile



rare for months.  The sunset stuns our eyes

of awesome artistry.  Truth be told.


Life Sentence

In a world entirely surrounded

by men, the Chica is sentenced


to life in a slender frame.  Finely sculpted

and sturdy as any body can get, she is


rarely appreciated for what she is.  To them,

it seems, she is much too small in this world,


but not too small to become just object and thing,

smart and dark.  Only worth a lick of salt


streaking her face clean, but she wants her own free

will, because in this time that begs for questions,


she is among the ones in the know, and if she cannot be

with like minds, she needs to be left alone.  She is much


too small, yet not small enough to accept being silent,

sequestered to a corner of filth that she did not produce.


From her bloody fingers she writes on a cinder

block wall:  Nowhere do I want to be


crooked, unfolding as a mirror of your image

to its fullest perfection.  I stand true before you


describing myself as a sculpture I’ve observed

close up.  Here I am supple: a slow flowing stone


to weather the deadly storm.

The Quick Depreciation of Fine Craftsmanship


Everything exposed to salt

and moisture will corrode


around here.  One dirt covered

paint job after another funnels in


all day, up on one lift and then to

the other.  Pounding on a broken ball


joint—the bitch just won’t budge:

she sneers to herself smearing grease


on her cheeks, as brown slush drips

from the car onto her covered


head.  She throws the mallet

and picks up her pen


to supplant some story.

Recalcitrant Beauty


for Shawn

It can’t be like the clichéd tough chick

who loves muscle cars,


but it’s not like it ain’t

true.  The Chica at the garage is


as much of a mystery as the Infinity

with brand new everything


(battery, alternator, starter, and great

tranni), yet that son-of-a-bitch still


won’t work.  Under her finger nails the dirt

won’t even come clean.  She accepts filth


as the way life is. It’s rare that she says much

at all throughout her very long days,


slinging 10 ply light truck tires on 20 inch

wheels.  This is a place where people are sometimes


happy that they do not speak each other’s languages,

and there is only one who speaks in poetry.  They keep


turning the key with not even a choke, or a tick, tick, tick

of some sort.  Just nuthin.  Some customer told her


today that he wants the calendar of her.  God gave her, her

tongue to hold, instead she writes it down.  As beautiful


and tough as she is does not equal the fact that she hates

the automobile, but she is a sucker for artistry—any


artistry.  The fact of filth always remains with a world

designed in the likeness of Mobil death-traps.  A silent


seraph scratched and in some place

serrated, just like all things


found in garages, she is a possession

which depreciates with time,


unless of course she becomes a classic.

Used to be she was a proud beauty, but the wear


and tear of blue-collar years, and blatant neglect


make her insides feel like scrap metal—no book

value left.  Everybody knows, in the shop, that a good


body doesn’t mean it runs.  If not properly maintained,

it’s just a matter of time before the timing


belt goes, a head gasket blows

then she’s a worthless piece of shit.

The Wise Rising

We’re the prophets, baby.  Come

here’s the water.  We will drink from

the spring again.  Time is now for sages

to blaze.  Why is nothing but

bother, so don’t bother.  There’s no doubt

we have been put on this precious

land to make water

of the sand.  For us it’s easy.  The end

is over so write the beginning.  Any way you

want it, lead us to another day.  Skies are limitless

we are here making the Genesis.

Malaise with a Touch of Catatonia

for Luke

Trifling with thoughts of various sufferings

in the world, no doubt caused by Seven


Deadly Sins, can cause a hopeless

feeling in those who pay


attention to humanity.  The human

condition is contemplated by the quiet observer


pondering if there is a human being


who can balance fair to midland on all

7 scales.  And, then some she wondered,


which am I likely to tip?  The answer

comes in the slow repulsion


to what our culture has become

and a desperate need to express it.

Dr. Hubris

To hear your voice is to rot

from the inside by castrated

semiotics.  The dead pan tones

grating out of your vocal chords

are nothing more than

the cliché of fingernails on chalkboards

making people claw at their own ears

in hopes to numb themselves

to the atrocity you

call planetary poetry.  I call pathetically

mousey, rubric rendered

ridiculous, and a mockery of something sacred.

Your words are small,

never rising to the music

of Orpheus. Self-serving

only allows your lines to inflate

nothing but ego, which disintegrates

the beautiful feather of poetics coasting on a bay

so appropriately called Misery.