Spiders

We used to catch spiders
Along the hills
Hunkered in tunnels
The smog, the fire

I can see his face
Young
Eyes still full
He was my dad
The shadow on the dirt

Years of want
Of love
Or death
(if that’s what it has to be then I’ll take it)
And anything else
Anything yours
The torture was too much

Too much for happiness
Too much to make it

And now
The hills are quiet
Slanted
The spider sleeps

I miss you today
Hunkered down
Doing this

Morning Report

When Sunday brings this

To my skin, to these walls

I know what I missed

One second, one look

I passed it by, went her way

Of all my mistakes

What I didn't know

The story, the tilling land

The sound in the room

Is what brings Sunday

The tug of her memory 

Next time I'll be there

23

Angel Guardian

On my desk, the tin cross

I'm clean once again

And the TV flick

The hum of this empty room

I chew on these pills

Just one more, just two

For those things I never knew

I rethink the day

Claim the load, the blame

The long gone and dusty name

I love you, I do

Piles

And those backyard poems

Buried like crickets and girls

Make the dirt my home

Dust

I came here with the dust

With the soon-to-be gambler,

the dancer

The married couple 

on their last stand

I made it crawling 

through cactus thorns

Old girlfriends

and dead scorpions

I ordered a beer

and then another

I heard cards smack

and coins drop

I heard good things,

Devil speak

I turned around: there she was

I came here to kiss 

those pink lights

Snapping out a cheap 

magnified dream

Women

Song

Whiskey

The voices said

So, I tried all three

Had a smoke

Stumbled home and fell asleep

The Rifleman

They said he came 

out of smoke

Two-syllable name

Wicked eye

A myth

A manchild

Gnashed teeth

A rifle

Rumbled the hillside

Took its town,

its stones

Shot it down

Burned it down

He knew the Devil

Smelled like fire

He died in the desert

Ate up by a pack of dogs

That’s what I heard

He was Mexican

Son of sad Ranchero

Was seen on a bus leaving town 

with a white woman

A manchild

Gnashed teeth

A pile of dead birds 

and songs at his feet

The Rifleman

Disappeared

"Has anybody seen Paul?" Michael asked. "I know he likes to take off for a couple of days here and there, but it's been like four days. I'm getting worried."

"Don't worry," the mother said. "You guys are that age. You leave. You find girlfriends. Jobs. Other places to live. It happened to me. Happens to everyone."

"I know. Everyone just seems to be leaving all at once. Andy's gone. Laura's gone. Michelle's gone. I heard she was working that two story on Peach Street. Must be a lot going on over there."

"I really like David's girlfriend," the mother said, changing the subject, knowing what she knew. "I'm so glad she moved in. She likes to bake. I like that. She made chocolate cake the other day. Did you get a chance to try it? I'm not a big fan of chocolate cake, but I'll take it. I love her peanut butter cookies."

They sat in silence for a while before Michael excused himself.

"Be careful out there," the mother said. "Keep your eyes peeled."

"I know," he said, tired of hearing her going on and on about keeping his eyes peeled, to not let his emotions get the best of him, to think.

Michael made the usual rounds. Didn't find too much but came home satisfied. He found his spot and fell asleep. He dreamt of Paul. He didn't look well. His eyes were dull, his shoulders slumped. His neck couldn't hold his head which kept rolling around. 

"Time will tell," he told Michael and disappeared in smoke.

That night Michael watched the girlfriend eating a sandwich. She was haunting. Pale white skin. Jet-black eyes. She made a phone call.

"Oh, I'm taking care of the fucking problem," she said, her black eyes scanning the kitchen. "It's disgusting."

David walked into the kitchen. He sat down and lit a cigarette. He looked at the base of the refrigerator where he set one up. 

"I moved some of them around, " he said. "Put one behind the hutch. One by the sliding door. Who knows where they're coming in from."

They turned off the kitchen light and Michael darted from his hiding spot. He went to the trashcan. Zipped under the pantry door and shit in his regular spot. He went to the bathroom down the hall. On his way back to the kitchen something caught his nose. It overwhelmed him. He took a few quick steps in its direction but stopped and thought for a moment, his nose nervously bobbing in the air. But the scent was too much and overpowered the warning and his nose lead him to the refrigerator. He licked the top of the peanut butter. Snap. He couldn't see. He didn't know what was happening. Something heavy was crushing his neck. He tried to pull himself out, his feet frantically scrapping against the wood and tile. He stopped to catch his breath. The air swirled with panic. He tried one last time, his neck finally giving in. 

"There goes another one," Michael told Shannon after hearing the trap close. "Another dead mouse."

(untitled)

And now I’m here by smile

The day is warm

And how it feels so good

Her traffic passed me by

I’m driving through

And now if feels so right

Bye my lady, come again your home

Will be your leaving

Dam the river, praise the day

I hope I’ll be forgiven

The running had me blind

The bottled room

If I could sleep awhile

The patience of the land

Where I will bloom

I’m coming back for good

Hold me baby, welcome to your home

We won’t be leaving

Sing the river, praise the day

We are now forgiven

My Funeral

At my funeral there will be flowers and herbs

Chrysanthemums and coriander

Firewitch and oregano

Thorny seasons and venting volcanoes

At my funeral there will be skeletons

Painted in purple and lime-green

Robed and naked

Playing guitar and drinking beer

Bones of hope and sadness

Lies and superstition

One will say I was her lover

One will say I was her brother

Another will bring a gun

To make sure what was done was actually done

At my funeral I’ll miss my ma and pa

Winks and water

Beds and stones

Jesus around the collar

And all the miracles I was sold

At my funeral I’ll wear a crown

Buttons and belt

Crows and dirt

And take my final rest among those flowered skirts 

Cincinnati

She slipped on the other heel. A childhood memory: The park. The cake and red punch. The new shoes. The shiny silver buckle.

“Do you like your shoes, Lily?” her father asked, his face happy and young. “They’re very pretty.”

Right before the ice storm turned the town to stone they laid him off. Most thought the jobs would come back. They prayed. That winter was colder than anyone remembered. Everything was gray and locked in place. Her father waited patiently. He fixed things in the garage, was seen doing the dishes. He listened for the phone. Then one day he picked up the bottle after eighteen years without a drop (he put down the drink the day Harbor Freight hired him).

“That job was supposed to bury me,” he told her, a pint sitting between his legs. “Supposed to pay for your wedding.”

The next winter wasn’t as cold. But when the first snow fell Harbor Freight was no longer and he wasn’t around to shovel the driveway and lay down the salt.

Another memory: Packing his things. A silver watch. A gold ring with a green stone. Some books. His scuffed work boots.

“I’m so sorry,” Uncle Gil told her outside the church, his eyes glossed over, going how his brother went. “It’s all in god’s plan.”

At one time Gil lived next door with his second wife. Jean. Monkey face. Saucer lips. They did two things: They drank and argued. Once Jean was out on the balcony drunk and naked, her big tits taking in the warm Kentucky sun. Another time the cops came and took him away.

“I want my lawyer!” he yelled as they walked him out, feet dragging, hands cuffed behind his back. “Jean! Jean! You bitch! You better take care of my goddamn cat!”

“Lily,” someone said, bringing her back.

She looked in the mirror. The dress was white despite the fact that she lost her virginity the summer before. “The Cincinnati Summer” is what she called her handwritten memoir. She documented everything.  The nervous drive to his house. The cigarettes. The hurts-so-good. He reminded her of her father. Even wore the same cologne.

“Wish you were here,” she said and fastened the last buckle.

Violin

And so there you are

In your shirt and shoes

In all those colors and looks

That I never knew

Blue

Black

Off-red

Half-sad

I came here by bus

My hands and such

By heart and dog

Now those things are gone

Miles of clean

Those roads now long

Curved and turned black

Now sing my song:

Slurring violins

Hallow drums

Snapped strings

And all those shifting notes in between

There you are

And here I am

My dust

My regret 

Little Dog

The way she saw it she had to dance. She had no other choice. At least that was her excuse. Aaron was out of work. Her chihuahua, Punch, needed a new toy, and the bills were piling up on the table.

She wore the tightest skirt she had and headed out the door. Aaron was sitting on the porch three hours into his new job which was watching the neighbors and taking blurry notes on their comings and goings.

“How’s work, Aaron?” she asked, her perfume heavy and drifting towards Barstow.

“Slow,” he slurred, a pint of vodka in his hand. “Not much action going on. The Addams family is arguing. Something about the cat shitting all over the living room. Doesn’t look good for the cat. So, I take it you’re serious about stripping.”

“Exotic dancer.”

“Stripper.”

“Asshole.”

Brenda pulled into Spanky’s. She was nervous, her stomach tumbling like dice. A thin girl wearing thick make-up was outside smoking a cigarette. She stared at Brenda and blew a hit of smoke out of the side of her mouth like Popeye.

Brenda did a jagged awkward dance in front of Max the club owner. She was green, didn’t know how to move her body. In time, he thought. He liked her tits. He was a tit man. That and whiskey.

“You can start tonight,” he said, staring at her dark nipples. “Do you have a man?”

“Yeah. Punch.”

“Punch?”

“Chihuahua. Six months old.”

“You’re gonna like it here,” he said, closing his eyes, seeing the bottle tilt. “It’s all here.” 

58

The sun was breaking behind me when I hit Highway 58 heading north. I had a head full of coffee and a head full of questions that didn’t have any answers. For what was up ahead, what would transpire, I didn’t know. There was a girl at the end of the road. A beautiful girl. She told me over the phone that she loved me. Told me to come see her. Play guitar for her. Write her poems. I loved her, too.

On both sides of the road the desert spread out like a sea painted in tans, browns, and pale greens. Joshua trees sprouted from the ground in jagged angles—its spiny blossoms splayed out like sharp star light. A train track followed along side the highway carrying the weight of rusted trains marked in faded graffiti. Vacant concrete homes stood lifeless on the hard desert dirt. I hit the gas and pushed forward.

I was just outside of Bakersfield when my phone rang. It was an old high school friend. I told him that I was on my way to northern California, that I was packed to move there, but didn’t know how long I’d stay.

“I’m winging it.”  

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “Good luck.”

Radio stations cut in and out, but the one constant was her face before me. She was smiling. She was across the table sipping wine. She was sleeping next to me as I brushed my hand over her back feeling her skin, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. I could hear her voice coming over the line. “Hey,” she’d say, her voice familiar and warm. “I just called to say that I love you. A lot. Got to get back to work. Have a great day. I’ll call you as soon as I get off. Bye, baby.”

I pulled over for a bite to eat around three hours from Sacramento. A hard wind was coming from the north. Flat agricultural land was to the right of the freeway. On the left was a wall of mountains where the freeway weaved around and disappeared. I sat on my tailgate and watched two crows sitting on a fence, necks swiveling, their feathers lifting and dropping down into the black.

I contemplated what brought me here. The choices I made. The ones I didn’t. My failures and my successes. I thought about my friends and family; most of them didn’t know where I was and where I was going, much less what I was thinking. And just like I’d hike the Montecito Hills alone as a kid, here I was moving over a strange highway with no one in the passenger seat. A seat that she’d soon be sitting in, her face turning and catching my nervous profile as it moved through her city.

How long she’d be in that seat, I didn’t know. She didn’t either. But the drive would be made regardless.