Archive for September, 2013



As the night crawled in early
The florescent bulbs of the diary queen drive in clicked on
As the engine idled
And the chicken tenders were fried
The lights seemed to have a ghost frog inside them
Clawing trying to find their way out
But their very purpose of existing
Would kill them if the gases escaped
From the cool long glass tube
A tube that protected its contents
Because without the insides the outside would be dark
And the moths that flutter around the gateways to heaven
Against the backdrop of blizzards
A small piece of yesteryear
Tucked away in the middle of bustling suburbia
And they didn’t intend it that way
They came to the big city to compete
But ended up stuck in time
Straight parallel to its current position
From an Ohio cornfield, 1987
You can escape your physical address and location
But it seems to follow dragging its followers
Living with a mascot that remains dormant in its own place
Charlie no longer brown but faded with the years
Still hawking the moon pies and fudge bars
But when you leave you are back home
With only memories of some distant rural burger joint
That you passed on that late night return home from work.


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Seattle 2003


Seattle 2003

It is funny when you love a place
But you have never seen it
Still you recognize it’s gray skies
The huge skyline
Replaced with a dwarfs version
Of your mind’s eye
It immediately calls to you “Welcome Home”
Looking unkempt and uncombed

The first look you get through the clouds
Is a breath take away from fantastic
The green dominating the landscape
And fog and drizzle laid out like a cape

It’s a shame the reputation she’s got
Burned our rockers and granola eaters
Home to Mr. Brownstone
Along with the blank looks of the stoned

But she holds another custom of her own
Dressed as no other
More comforting than a mother
She wraps her cold, damp arms around
And whispers in the wind
“Welcome Home”

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Your Worth At Birth


Castles and carousels
Hold the same mystique
With big spirals and horses of the elite
Time spins both
At a rate of their own
Fun times at last
Never last
And you lose your head to the guy in a mask

The periods of up and down
And the seriousness of their frowns
It all calculates…
And then proceeds to dictate
A world frozen in time
Hidden from its past

We are sheltered from the hidden
The unknown that happens outside the realm
Of billboard signs
And dotted lines
A place where long ago we decided
That we liked the way we were
And we like the things we see
Like the couch, parades and the glow of the TV

But in the actual span of space
Lies 8 months, 3 weeks and 4 days
To pretend not to be
Masking ourselves with anguished pleas
Victimized faces facing their troubles
As the buildings crumble
And the system swallows
Everything you knew you were ever worth
To anyone as much as you were at your birth

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To those that charge
I hope it is without injury
To those that yield
I hope you have no enemies
The yellow lines
Stay between
The upside triangle that cautions

Because somewhere between the ether
Of highway fumes
And radio tunes
There is a collision

It happens in slow motion
But over in one quick explosion

Glass of mistake stinging the eyes
Eyes that stare back as victims
Bouncing across the road
Coming to a rest
Silently waiting

To those that attack
That confuse
Crossing lines
Without stating their intentions

Afterwards we sit
Hard curbs and caring eyes
Head in our hands
Ringing in the ears
Yielding to that sense of dread
Lurking louder and more intense
And that never quite goes away.

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Whenever he was injured on the job, duck tape was his stitches. If you needed a good laugh or someone to talk to, he was there. He was a great storyteller and an all around nice guy. His girlfriend was equally as nice and as equally addicted to various substances. He was the type that constantly lived in fear of prison time for any one of the many illegal things he may get caught doing.

He had drama in his life constantly. He and his girlfriend would have huge fights. And because he was addicted to Meth, he had to sell it as well. But mostly it was all for him. But when the fights happened, and she stormed out, he feared the worse. Retribution and revenge for whatever it was that he did was his worst fear. And he worried that it would take the form of cops busting in his door in the middle of the night acting on a hot tip from an unknown source. They would ransack his apartment and find his ounce of meth.

One night, knowing that I liked music, he asked me to help him DJ at a friend’s club. This seemed like a dream come true. We drove over in his van. His van was the perfect movie fan. It was a late model Ford with no seats, except for the front driver and passenger side. It still had traces of its former glory with shag carpet on the floor and walls. No windows and lots of dried plaster and paint. On the way there, he announced that his ex-girlfriend was following us. He didn’t want her to know where he was going for the night. So off into a neighborhood he flew taking corners at 35 mph and swerving in and out of side streets. It was nighttime and the headlamps of his ex stayed with us. Never have I wanted to get out of a car so bad. I was strapped in and prepared myself for an eventual collision and wreck. But she faded away and he returned his driving to normal.

He often told of a story of when he lived in California. He had two huge screw scars in the corners of his forehead and one night I asked him what they were from. He had been helping to transport a package of drugs from New Mexico back to California. It was a midnight run. He was trying to get some sleep in the back seat when the driver fell asleep and left the road. During the crash through the desert sage the car was flipping over and over. He would tell of waking up as he flew in slow motion out the smashed side window. As he flew through the air he remembers seeing the sun rising in the East across the desert and thinking how beautiful it was. That was David, full of hope and beauty. But he was trapped by the dirty work that he could not escape. He could be transported pounds of drugs illegally across the country, involved in a horrible car crash, and still admire the beauty of a sunrise. I like to tell this story whenever people question why I was friends with a guy like him. He woke up in a hospital with a broken neck and other injuries. Months later, back at home, he would decide that paying the hospital to remove the screws from his skull was pointless since he could rid himself. He had a screwdriver. And so he removed it himself one night while sitting on his couch looking into a mirror. I tend to believe his stories because I saw the way he lived. And nothing about him was fake. Despite the dangerous moments he put me in, I do wish I still counted him as a friend. But he slipped away and I never saw him again.



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