Fifty Towards Rent:

His face was like waxy plastic
Wrinkles so deep
carried separate livelihoods.
His knuckles pink,
had thick frost and old joints.
I watched,
his tin Cambells can
go clanking back and forth,
one single coin.
My fur coat flipped over my ears,
rugged leather purse,
steel boots
every part of me ready to fall apart.
The man, nearly eighty,
beard grey, shoes used
torn soles, woolen socks
his smile pulled the wrinkles tighter around his lips
“Spare a penny?”
That was the coin, a penny.
His eyes followed mine, downcast.
That smile never faltered.
The fifty came from my pocket
fled into the can and
before I could stop it
I’d give the pauper my rent.

Shackles:

Shame tied to her wrists
like children pulling apart butterflies wings,
unnatural, vicious as a whip
people stare.
Unattached to a joyous livelihoods
Woken by the rattle freight trains
She’s finally found her nerve
Now her feet when they move they’re running
Cast iron frying pan in her hand
smooth, un-calloused, unscarred
She swings fast,
upper arms shake
body mass crumples,
she whispers
“I said don’t touch me.”
He’s broken, she’s been re-set
a pair.
He took her empathy,
she leaves.

Athenian Rhetoric:

The weeping willow tree
is riddled with silver bullets
that stick out like scars
and tinsel draped over Christmas trees
My aunt Sharon has a metal cage in her back
cancer and a trailer in strawberry park
she’s got a tormented past like I do
I suppose that’s why we connect
This worlds got such a rage to it
people never just walk to walk
lawsuits handled in courts like the rhetors of Athenians
a showpiece,
men lying about lairs
to those who knew they were lied to.
Is it justified yet?

For Sale:

She had dimples
and a wedding band
hazel eyes, pretty smile
soft hair and a foreclosed sign
nailed to the grass in her front yard.
Her husband says he loves her
seems all they say are words now,
to lawyers who charge too much.
To a judge who cares too less.
To the jurors who wish to be anywhere else.

Versatile:

The person I used to be
Walked with a stride,
gait and smirking glare.
Propelled towards goals.
Threw her heart down on gambles
leapt from house roofs
laughing until she cried
crying until her lungs bled
had purpose that drove her forward
and an anger like a rabid dogs
Spent hours cursing a typewriter
for her void of words
and days fixing after,
dutifully all the broken parts

Moments:

Moments like rose petals
and beach sand
wet mud and jarred lightening bugs.

Moments we ache for; crave.
Moments we clutch to; save.

Like taped together torn photographs,
rusting swing sets
and your loved ones on Ferris wheels
mothers hugging daughters
right before cancer attacked.

Moments, we have to,
let go.

Stars and Denim:

Brand new chucks
Worn till they don’t have soles
till duck tape can’t cover their holes
Never had a dollar till she got to college
Never had enough to eat
Never could get enough sleep
Door locked barricading herself never gave her peace
Never felt safe enough to be
Tile floor never felt so cold
Shaking hands never felt so old
Suicide; she never thought she’d be so bold

1976:

Wheels, tires, asphalt
Spinning over white lines
Black eye throbbing from the night before
Whiskey sitting in the pit of my stomach
Ash in the tray dirty white shirt
looping over shoulder blades
Bowie 1976
Don’t know a single goddamn song of his
Found the shirt on the beach
Needed a shirt, it fit.
Take a hit, pass the stoke
Press the pedal to the floorboards
Tires squeak,
sand spits, gravel flies
Another hit, cigarettes in ashtrays
Wax on a long board
Dented in barely holding on
Fabricated with polyurethane
to hold its leash
Smell of salt, rising tide
Smell of caffeine, stale French fries and synthetic bath salts
Ill stay in the water till
my arms can’t carry me

Irons:

She is heavy leaded
with sagging shoulder blades,
got mercury and acid from the 70s in her veins
brick factory from the Great Depression in her basement
Orange preserves in jam jars,
her six brothers weren’t draft dodgers
They fought and came back from Vietnam
could tell you stories of kids strapped with bombs
that’ll make your skin crawl
came home without parades,
people threw bottles at their heads
called the men ‘baby killers’
Arthur was a marine
tied a rope to an attic rafter and hung himself
His sister went mad
was locked away
in some white padded cage
the doctors, parents, friends
stretched their arms back till the muscles clenched
and threw that iron key
straight into the Mediterranean Sea
the world forgot all about her
and the hanged marine