It's Called Rush Hour for a Reason

People come around the corner trying not
To notice the lump of living death
That's laying among the collected
And disregarded pieces of trash.

What's passed out and pale is easier
For all of us to ignore and try
To implore him through shaking
Our heads and muttering shame.

Then close all the doors to the bus
Or the Benz to travel outside
Of those comfortable lines, loosening
The grip inside pocket or purse.

A sheet metal house for the holy
Is filled to the brim with selective
Solicitors and particular pricks, numbing
Their senses by picking up sticks.

There's no liberation in balancing budgets
Or lowering rates when the bet was
Laid by the beggars and thieves who
Need nothing compared to those who escape.

Heaven's a junkie with both legs broken
And skin stretched tight over varicose veins.
It's the same as the black plastic bed
That you saw him enjoy.

We all admire what we think we despise
And run wild when faced with the truth
At our door. So next time he asks,
You tell him what for.

Everyone Looks Up

The thick scent of incense overtakes and ages
Me in seconds like a time machine to
Constantine, or a pair of size 11 shoes to
A new born child.

And as I look up on these artificial stars,
The man made constellations try to
Convince me of their prophecy for the
Future that is already unfolding.

Most of those around me wear glasses
That hide the spectacle, like the beauty
Of a new fallen snow making a mountain
Out of a dug up mound.

Where they see sparkle I see mournful eyes,
Who paid for names and made up games
And smiled through the pain of a mother
Kissing their skinned up knees.

While men with celebrity dreams move
Furniture for fun and make small
Holes in boxes with their ever-watchful
Eyes that wander to your thighs.

So when everyone looks up,
Someone must look down.

Anticipation is Fun

At each end of this ten month long tether
Is a universal, impersonal place where
Nothing can stop to hesitate or enjoy the view.

People stop and stand still, but keep moving
In reflections of windows to shops
That satisfy vices in outrageous quantities.

Colorful animals stuff themselves and scatter
Into corners and crevices, some empty and old
Or covered in dust because of the cold.

Others see it as a glorified garbage bin
To discard and abandon living trash,
Never staying long and never looking back.

But now, once again, as often before,
I use it to open the proverbial door,
And feed that starving part of my soul.

The Sound From Behind

The wailing human siren's shrill call still pulses

And bends your heart's pumping to its will.

For him it's an automatic alarm, subtly replacing

Words you might use and abuse and shout

To hit the snooze button.

The skin tight box he's locked inside is

Never opened for air or light or any

Favorite things, like those barrel-chested

Bear hugs your father used to give.

When he asks for a milkshake, he's given a pill.

When he leans in to hug you, he's told to sit still.

Then tell the nurse when your fingers burn 

From all the pointing at pictures with words 

And remember to read them out loud in your head.

Don't Trust Your Instincts

As you come around the corner
Guns drawn, playing God for the
Men with children who may or
May not become bastards for your
Right to feel secure, you find
The courage to hold steady and pure.

For what honor is there in the blind
Cock fight, the animal scrapping
And pulling out pride, feather by feather?

Strength has worn down and withered away
In the guise of protection and selfish ambition,
To outlast all other species of bird.
So bring your shame to the ignorant circle,
And pray for the pitiful, heartbreaking past.

Pour Out The Past

Hold tight and fast to what is born,
For the emptiness, it cannot last
And while others wait to see what comes
You fill their heads with rotten milk.

The silk that made your mother's garter
Will be used to barter for filth
That should have been cherished like
The aging pages you no longer read.

You just bleed dried blood from empty veins
And stain your off-white night dress
Because sleeping naked would feel too good.
It's no surprise you're so depressed.

The sour smell stars to overpower
And overtake all of us except for you
Who tastes sweetness at the slightest touch,
But it's not the Lord who longs for you.

What's half empty should be all the way gone,
Ready to welcome the whiskey and water
Or red and white wine, but nothing beyond.
Now pour out the past and sing a new song.

So play the pipe organ to accompany fate
And wait there for years just to hear
A tired melody that longs to retire.
Even the words are aware of their place.

So pour out the past and sing a new song
And empty those bones that are soaked
In the mucus of musical death.
The right to compose is all we have left.