The Only Thing Funny About a Cock Fight Is the Name

July 30, 2011  :: 0 comments

The sanguinary sanctuary came with the
property, so a full-sized family fully filled
half of half of a mobile home:
A single-wide severed to a quarter-wide

among mesquite trees. Next door,
in a double-wide Buddhist temple,
prayers repeated, beckoned an Awakening
or any Nirvana by a dirt road.

Without a home, families are feral, much
like the dozens of roosters they owned,
caged by chicken wire fences, blinded by
masks, roosters tethered by shoestrings to stakes,

fed on scattered feed and dirt, a mask was slipped,
revealing a missing an eye: A war hero shared fence space
with a rooster missing a foot, a yellow stump—a popsicle stick.

Their stakes were pulled up like trailers in tornadoes.
Each contender attacked in pecks.
What beautiful humans they’d make.

The one with one leg grew
a new appendage:
a talon hung from its throat.

As Buddhists mediated hair growth
and peace among all things and fig trees,
the stabbed bird toppled, twitched,
bled to death.

Clutching a once clucking, reincarnated, possible ancestor,
the masked cockerels—living witnesses and a wife heard:
“Dear, it only has one leg, but we’re blessed
xxxwith a chicken dinner tonight!”

0s and Fs

featured in the poetry forum July 30, 2011  :: 0 comments

“The tongue moves [in prayer] but does not speak.”
~ Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu (Mother Teresa)

Born to speak, I rehearsed words,
but mathematic calculations:
Tapping on fabricated calculators:
Unraveling universal mechanics,
got me poor marks, 0s and red Fs:

Miscalculations lamentations, and
parents pitied my brain, they prayed
for God to open my mind—for God
so loves the lazy children
not mindful of work ethic—

but no ethics were brought into this,
the brain was God’s business.
I was damned by the dictionary, the good book—
After the second report card, failure reaffirmed,
I was off to the third revival of the week.

Hands were laid upon my un-mathematical head.
Moving mouths, born with tongues, obtained language,
rambled God’s speech, exhalations in tongues:
Unintelligible words, incoherent invocations.
Tenebrous unspellable words, just 0s and red Fs.

Hot Crimes at the Scene of the Time

featured in the poetry forum May 21, 2011  :: 0 comments

On hot days, dusty window tint snaked through lots
looking for a less sweaty walk to Adobe shops,
corner to corner, plus sizes to caged mice in pet shops.
No clouds canopied weathered bench screws and

rust-free germy handles hung on to black hole windows
as 10 languages hissed bargains from inconsiderate speakers,
as mothers and strollers slithered between shadow and sun
past open doors, cooling sunburned concrete, snapping pop music poison.

The dollar’s dogma disciplined disciples by discounts
while grackles publicly pleaded for pretzel samples;
cricket corpses collected in corners, and no matter
the season’s styles, scales were shed for new threads,

While, in ceilings, rats were safe from fangs and
the soundtrack of quarter-operated laughter.

Off the Balcony, Bacon!

featured in the poetry forum March 29, 2011  :: 0 comments

After working hours, is happy hour. Friends meet for cheap,
Carbohydrated drinks.
Instead she clocked out and came dressed in grey cotton, to sweat in
an apartment garage: Converted to a gym, padded with dumbbells.

I enjoy the view from my monthly lent balcony, and see
the trainer, my neighbor, command “Shoulders to knees!”
A barbarically behemoth body rolls, the piglet gives a grunt,
it runs up three stories (forty steps) and knocks at my door.

The trainer gets the straining belly rolling,
bulging, abs deep under her gargantuan bulb.
Ecstatically coaching a glacier into a sprint
or Jupiter to spin faster. Both could be easier.

Popping down three stories (forty steps), around
parked Mercedes’ and unlocked Mazdas, steam and smell from
my bag of popcorn pushes the sow back down
before she can sit-up—“Shoulders to knees!”—to number three.

American Muscle

February 5, 2011  :: 0 comments

With a leaned limp, weighed with a wash bucket,
all day, he’s spent like girls bronzing tan lines away:
Shirtless in the sun, bartering parking lot to parking lot
in strained elastic waistband sweatpants
cowering under his bold belly;

offerings spotless washed windshields for only
payments of whatever change wallowed in water,
sour chew spit, sticky soda sugars in cup holders.

Dusk died in red and purple dye in the sky
and he caught every last violent ray
as he cleaned bug guts, dirt chips,
remains of the last decent rain
as sweat etched his epidermis;

by the bucket, he smiled and stood
as soap bubbles dissolved in polluted water,
for vehicle owners to slip out a sandwich shop
like squeezable mustard, with full stomachs
and generous giving’s of loose change.

His sponge had licked every international car
with American muscle, including mine;
he caught me full of a club sandwich, like a vampire
fresh stuffed from an all-nighter blood buffet.

My key’s teeth chewed, the door unlatched,
and the American working man
stood with an open hand,

starved for the taste for change,
nickels and dimes, but
all he got was pennies.

More, is what he asked for. More!
So short of small metallic circle currency,
I gave a grocery bag of bread and peanut butter;
in his hands was a moveable feast, my provisions—

he dropped it to the parking lot,
my meal for days. He demanded meat.
Meat! A meal from once-living creatures,
slimmed and sliced thin.

A family ambled out the sandwich shop
as slow as their arteries flowed.

He could hear their change cling
in their deep pockets
he could smell their wet change
in their car’s sloppy cup holders.

A Morning With Dusty

featured in the poetry forum February 5, 2011  :: 0 comments

Dusty needed a job, he must have, because
no sane man brews coffee at four A.M.
for wheel twisting, peddle pushing, demented drivers.

Dusty kept a cigarette behind each ear,
reeked of a Sunday afternoon, roadside beer bottle,
wore goatee scruff and vomit teeth un-brushed in his head.

Dusty poured a flask into a twenty-ounce cup
and covered the secret with four A.M. coffee.
His background check did not dig too deep.

Dusty rolled off the rubber band
when the morning paper hit the door,
went straight to page three paradise.

Dusty pointed at his own mug shot. “That’s me,”
he said proud of slight celebrity status:
Arrested for inciting violence and assault with a deadly weapon:
a beer bottle.

Dusty found his wife in the men’s room
not alone.

Dusty douched his mouth with coffee, gurgled, swallowed and
unholstered his cigarettes to take a state-approved smoke break.

Just Another Juggernaut In Texas

January 24, 2011  :: 0 comments

To this trucker, 9:17 in the morning feels the same way as 9:17 in the evening. But unlike the night before, my rig’s gas gauge was nearly on E outside Vernon, a town that makes the Great Chihuahuan desert a little less bearable. The terrain seemed to be bursting with bulbous water towers, and hotel signs poked out of dead, …

Smoke Signals

December 4, 2010  :: 0 comments

Across balconies,
we greet in glimpses.

There’s new life in a carpeted
studio apartment.

My new neighbor, a girl,
a christened ship out of harbor.

Out on her own
with a small apartment, her own;
with a body well grown, her own.

She showers and in
warm pants of euphoric huffs,
steam spreads on her apartment’s
glass doors,

panes as wet as a
bus driver’s pants.

Her finger prints
paint streaks
and curves:

she’s marked, on her window a
message in moisture for me:

a heart.

Such a friendly smoke signal
wasted
on this savage.

War Crimes

featured in the poetry forum December 4, 2010  :: 0 comments

I sunk deep into a shoebox I found by dad’s pistol,
demonically, like Adam’s teeth into his wife’s apple
dark pictures spilled out like white milk.

I had never seen these before
since dad ended the war, a solider with a
Tommy gun hammering his shoulder in

stills of history which makes generations believe
the whole world was black and white TV.

Hills the size of two story homes built
of skinny hairless boys, their mothers,
and big hungry bellies were

pushed by black and white bulldozers
operated by men with peroxide skin
into pitch-dark ditches.

“Dad, these people are dead, right?
xxxxxxThey must be.”
“No. We could hear the top of the pile breathing
xxxand the bones of the bottom, crushing.”

Allies came with chocolates and Democracy,
and saw the buried but alive,
just in time for war crimes.

“Dad, what did you do?”

Shaking like a lone October leaf,
he explained how he carried
himself when seeing science and status quo
exterminating humans—

“We shot those sons of bitches off the dozers.
We blew them to pieces; my .45 tore a German’s
xxxface into five slices of skull and skin.”

If there was any blood,
it was photograph black.

Dad closed the shoebox,
put the war back on the shelf
and got himself a beer.

At His Funeral He Still Looked Like Johnny Cash

October 24, 2010  :: 0 comments

“That sounds fine. As long as the Lord Jesus Christ doesn’t come back before then.” This was the first response I got from my grandfather, Pawbe, when I told him I wanted to draw. “When does Jesus want to come back?” “We don’t know. No one does. But it’s soon.” I didn’t respond. I just slid down the humorless, black, …