Madam’s Organ Blues Bar

A tired place; the walls are riddled
with photos of visitors whose toothless grins
reflect their false hope and forgotten dreams.
This bar, I visit often to watch and listen.
Tonight, two men were laughing violently
and I realized I am becoming apart of them,
apart of their laughter
with every inhale and short gasp.
Their breath disappears into their dark,
smoke incrusted throats,
their bruised lungs and forsaken hearts.
Our breath allied into a band of shit.
For a brief moment,
these men and I are together
within a world of thought;
where our false laughter and reusable relationships
become disgustingly real.
Where you give champagne to your lovers
and the shame of pain to your enemies.
Where Saturday nights
always end in a numb arm
from leaning on the back of a chair for too long
just trying to get hits with a pretty girl.
No one comes in here without baggage,
wanting to spill onto anyone who will listen;
I’ve heard it all.

Butch Deadmarsh

He was born tired and his head pressed
Hard against the concrete dead-end walls
Of mindless work.
His toothless grin; an apt title to his ignorance
And overly anxious laughter;
the sound of barricaded elephants
On their last leg.
No more than fifty dollars to his name
And a line of past dues and unsettled debts.
He sleeps, and eats, and drinks
And sings from a mouth clamped;
Emptied and topped off then emptied again,
Pouring his wretched breath onto those in his company.
The seat in the bar where he sits
Every Saturday, polishing the backside
Of the stool,
Is where he drinks a pint, till his memory
Drowns in a slew of senseless mourning,
Sip after sip.

The Clearing of a Mist

A day and a night and a day of mist
clears at a night’s sun fall.
A quiet wind whines overhead,
the city begins to resurface.
Damp roads appear to be lacquered,
cars still wet as any wave.
Glossy windows reflect the glow
of a sullen moon, of lamp posts,
like riddled fireflies
throughout a silent dew pond.
The melting mist reveals the worth
of metropolitan streets, only briefly forgotten;
but now silvered in droplets,
plastering a shinning city.

Hard Boiled Ride

I was reading a newspaper article.
A reporter had ridden along side convicts
to a prison on the outskirts of Colorado;
chronicling the trip,
for the publics amusement.
I couldn’t help by envision this ride;
a trip east.
Rolling fields of wheat erupted
like golden fingers pointing
towards their fated doom.
One would feel ill,
others sick from sooty plush seats.
Vomit stains on the floor,
spewed from a desolate soul
whose abnormal thirst is now- forever dry.
In twisted jumpsuits and swollen feet
their chains click and cling
with every bump in the road.
The wretched smell of rye and whiskey
has faded into their forbidden senses;
no longer drunkards.
Their faces- bad mouthed,
wide eyed, messed open tongues.
Their faces- collapsed into their baby hands;
their faces were in a flesh of fear.

The I-95

It was only coffee and cartons of cigarettes
that fueled my dad to his next haul.
My childhood memories are muddled,
saturated with visions I choose to remember;
trucking with him is one of them.
Driving deadly back roads
to avoid the weight scales,
the smell of his Copenhagen chew,
dashboard cleaner, the diesel smoke
rising from chrome stacks,
the pine scented air freshener-
these annoyances to others
were only calming to me.
Proudly sitting in the plush red passenger seat
I would outline the small dessert etching
he engraved himself on the window;
a howling coyote, a desolate wasteland,
an eclipsed moon hidden behind murky clouds.
It was those moments I was completely void
of all thoughts of home.
The paved road was the very thing
that silenced that anticipation of the becoming.
The road ahead merges with the semi’s hood;
a blurred vision of concrete and sky
become all to comforting.
I always felt I was one of them, a trucker.
Never putting out or giving in to nothing,
remaining a lonesome soul just to get by.
I longed for the empty diners
where you get a plastic monkey
hanging off the tip of your drink.
Where everyone you meet has baggage,
waiting to unload onto anyone who’ll listen.
Where, during a brief rest break,
you become best friends
with the man sitting beside you,
knowing every detail of his life
down to the final wishes in his will-
this all reminds yourself others exist.
I was too young to ever understand
where we were headed, or why.
All I knew was the I-95 was long,
and you always had to turn back home.

Bus Stop #78

Standing at bus stop #78
I clasp my armpits possessively,
as if someone had asked to borrow them,
but I refused.

It’s unbearably cold.
People pass with their faces hidden
behind thick wool; only their eyes exposed
to this piercing winter,
dying to reach their destination.

The sound of traffic,
the smell of diesel,
the tired, busy bodies heading somewhere,
anywhere besides this icy prison.
They look numb
to any care other than escaping.

Time stops
when a chilling breeze picks up.
Infant snow bursts into an unclaimed sky;
appearing as soft crystals dancing
amongst those who despise its very presence.
Everyone is still, waiting
for the snow to settle.