House at Night
Gold-flecked dust ignites in waves.
I kiss my desert skin.
The coyote’s song lulls me
before I count the sheep.
The doorknob will turn
before the lock’s clasp
protects me from
what is inside.
*************************************************
Numb as a tortoise
who hides in his shell,
I take the bite of the rattlesnake
who breaks his fangs on my carapace.
I swallow the venom from his lips.
I consume his allotrope skin,
take in the flesh as taffy
between my teeth.
*************************************************
He dies as I play
his song,
“Papa was a Rolling Stone.”
The notes are tucked into a journal.
My cracked voice sings,
When he died,
all he left me
was alone.
My Life Map
The portrait of my childhood
resides in Thomas Brothers’ Guides
My home is carpeted in asphalt
and built with median walls
Take the 110, exit Slauson
to my birthplace
Head south on Vermont
and right on Manchester
for my elementary school
Imperial Highway to Dockweiler
Daily vacations and to watch
Dad drink wine and smoke weed
91 East to high school
91 West to leave high school
Park on Manchester and Prairie
to go to the track
Live at the motel across the way
Dad called me a whore on the sidewalk
Take El Segundo to Willowbrook
for Mom and Dad’s heroin
Take Manchester again for SSI checks
Go up LaBrea for Dad’s Sherms
Sleep in the car on Rosecrans
Off Century and Alameda to find Dad’s crack
Near LaCienega watch cancer eat away at Mom slowly
Sleep on the streets downtown on 7th
South on 405 to start over
Just Another Brunch
I
Every Sunday at brunch, we divide papers
Washington Post, New York Times
This week I take the Times
“Paris Attacks…”
I thought I woke in 1942
Reading on
“Military on Patrol - City in Lockdown”
One was a migrant - Syrian passport
Life taken by fear
Life stolen by the fearful
“They did not give anybody a chance”
Fifteen killed mid-meal
II
CNN
The results are live
Wilted roses rest
in bullet hole
cracked glass
serving as memorials
People try to understand the difference
“We love life”
“They love death”
They come after us
First through our computers
Then they come
with bombs and guns
Parisian Police tremble in confusion
and we are reminded
“This is not Islam”
III
Mid-morning I feel the bliss
of paper and ink
between my fingers
Reading lives I know
only through words
Tasting the sweetness
of pancakes and honey
on my lips
He sits across from me
absorbed in the Post
forking away at steak and eggs
while my lemon slice settles into
the ice at the bottom of my
water glass