Why Did The . . . ?

Old man runs like a

cock, knocks you down, collides

with your scooter. Ouch.



Cars pay no notice.

He shakes his bald head. You grab

your scooter; he screams:



"Why were you here?!?" He

screams again, berating you,

as busses swerve by.

Waltzing our Problems

Easy beats: slow slow

quick-quick, slow slow quick-quick, as

we dance around truth

Black Lace

In the middle of the desert night
is the only thing going on,
its high plateau winds push open
the doors of a Winnemucca bar,
the dance floor wood warped with
sin and the last thing I desire
is the sight of this, peeping over
southbound walls of a
Wranglerized prison as I
serenade the waitress, a hint
of black lace.

I must consider that a cover
band blares CCR to packed packed
bar and people dance not in line
but arrhymically. She has to
work this crowd; she, the kind of
person having to pull the closing
shift: rent-needing, weary,
hurried, or plain beltless.

Setting the beer on my corner
table, for a brief moment
her smell, a faded vanilla
mixed with movement,
hits me. Lace brushes my
arm. Would the lace matter so much
if it had dots of tiny white?

Is this just the high wind talking?
The distance? She slithers through
a sea of jeans with dip rings
cut into the seat and belt
buckles branded into the front.
No nursing this brew; it slides
down easy as I wonder if there
is a pool room out back, ignore
the ruffian in me - at least the
one saying that pool tables only
lead to felt burns - and stand.

The Screamer Has The Floor

With a face as minced as parsley -
all crooked brows and eyes bulging
down to the milky whites, the
speaker's infective caused
walkers to venture off the curb,
caused suits to cradle their
cellphones; a deliveryman's
sharp glance had no effect.

Tell me not 'so' but 'what
makes it': there's a reason you
scream into the teeth of the
rush hour. If you lay in on me
softly, like a heirloom . . . this I
can more readily accept

than your spouting syllables
and rough living. Tell me
whose face you want to get
in and we're goin', away from
hatchbacks or hobo
jungles, dress you up in
Goodwill collars
and clean. Don't laugh:
it's my only suit.

And you seem too
committed for the abyss,
too prideful to be a
sandwich-board man,
so let's synergize -
the mere thought of it
curls the edges of my
mouth skyward.
Tell me what you see
. . . and I'll figure out
how to get it said.