He and his mother live in a trailer,
she posits in confidential tones
with bristling brevity.
In casual conversation, Amy said
that was fucked up.
Hard truth takes your breath away and breaks your heart.

Heaving open the throttle of my
memory
we glimpse the face of that
little girl,
one female,
age 10,
his friend,
my friend
Amy,
holding his mother responsible
with a moody righteousness,
ultimately assessing who fell from Paradise.

That scene
situated itself cozily
just this side of
bright blue pain
since I’ve admitted to getting old.
Sober, it’s difficult to speak
a dizzying cascade of confessions,
and perhaps, soon,
the head and heart game
she began
will fizzle into dust
making the wrong
instantly distant, hollow.

What I want to know now
is how to live
the present above and beyond
sleep, rhythms, stability…
to strike a beautiful balance
filled with resolve
not to take
advantage of familiarity
to cast a shadow.

I found a world map in the garbage. I’m always finding things, especially in the garbage. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would throw out a perfectly good map, not to mention one of the world. Weren’t they curious? Didn’t they plan to travel the world and need it to plot their way. Maybe they were going to travel the world but only as they happened upon it. Maybe they had already been once round and didn’t need to be guided. Either way, caution to the wind and sorrow to whom ever needed a map.

A bustop named desire:
Drive could be called Desire. The desire for more: Shopping, that SUV, the attractive blond. Taking the attractive blond shopping in your Luxury SUV. Icons that society says you need, but could very well afford to do without:daily two dollar cup of coffee.

Sid at Coffee
Sid is covered in grease and unshaven. His probably only bothers to clean his nails every three months or three thousand miles, which ever comes first. He gets a paper, and an ice coffee. Despite the signs on the door, he brings a bag lunch and eats it while reading, but I don’t think the rule was geared towards Sid. His shirt says he works at Robby’s. I’m not really sure where they’re located or what they do beyond general automotive work. A once red “Snap-on racing” cap. He brings a backpack in which he carries his brown bag lunch and an automotive textbook.

In a way I envy Sid. He’s got it all figured out. A steady job, part time education, and a pocket full of pens, a pen light, and a pressure gauge.

This guy has fire in the belly.
There’s his look: sashaying all cute, squeezed into skin-tight duds.
There’s his voice: ebullient, inexhaustible.
Not once, from his best years
in the 80′s as class raconteur with Chicago roots
to this day, bitterly stubbing out cigarettes in Baton Rouge, LA,
has he shown so much as a glimmer of surrendering.
That vibe wouldn’t fly with him.
In reality, he had no choice.
Everyone has a boss, including artists when
they wear those hoped-for opportunities
like dŽcolletŽ in candlelight.

“In the 90′s,” he said, his voice breaking,
“I’ve been through being mad at my parents,
mad at boys, and a lot of people
can relate to that.”
Callings keep whispering,
the memory of blockbusters galore inspires progress
but I am privy to all the fine print.
And his decisive moment came,
Featuring the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile.

He’s an artist and he lives for his music.
“You never say never,” he said. “But I don’t
anticipate anything coming down the pipeline
anytime soon.”
To the obscure writer,
poet,
singer-songwriter,
photographer,
screenwriter:
I mean, this is the stuff you need to know.