Whatever you do in the world,

Will be insignificant.

You can sugar coat it if you want,

Say that its not true.

But one day there will be no one left,

To remember me or you.

You can be a famous singer,

Like Beyonce of Jay-Z,

Or a nobel prize winner,

Like Albert or Humphrey.

It all doesn't matter.

Ashes are just ash.

Will the world end in ice?

Or in a red hot flash?

The point of this poem,

Is not to make you sad,

But to tell you to enjoy your time,

And stop being so mad.

Stop worrying about little things,

Release all that stress and dread.

Don't worry about that broken glass

Or your messy unmade bed.

Enjoy life.

Smile at the sky.

Laugh when something is funny,

And enjoy the wild ride.

        Make it rain with your words. 

        Summon that storm and start it with some pit-pattery onomatopoeiae. Then electrify the collective mind taking its precious time to witness your impressive might by throwing some phonetic intensives in the jive. Forget about any windlimit to your speeds, any decibel threshold pathetically parading your thunder, see. Now get some twisters in the mix to optimize that cauldron's elemental diversity, make it more legitimate. And finally, tightrope over that shit walking the fine line between eloquence and verbosity.

        Or, simply, keep it clear-skied and unwindy. 

Your wand, your call.

I am a round rock

Laying in a river bed

Many days I tumbled

The ice and sand-my home,

I cracked Against others like me-

Wayward, heavy, stones.

Pushed without cease

I suffered the rivers errant way,

Thrown without mercy

My edges were all shorn away.

Every corner - ground to nothing

Wondering what next could be in store,

Every cracked appendage

Wore me down a little more.

I knew myself to be shrinking,

And As I became smaller

I buckled down and I tightened my belt

but I loosened up my collar.

I am a round rock

Laying in a river bed

Countless angry, thrashing waves

Have crashed upon my head

The under tow picks at my feet-

Inviting me to sink-

Her embrace is tempting,

But the current denies me peace.

If I am smooth

It is because the rough was beaten from me

My prickling skin, battered down

But I am smooth because I fought back

And I refused to drown.

I am a round rock

Laying in a river bed

There is always something left to polish,

I have not seen the rivers end.

But when I reach that delta fan

I'll be smooth

And small

And perfect

Finally allowed some peace

Laying in its quiet sand.

The hulking, burnt out husks,

Of rusting semi trucks-

Sleep here in dead grass

The putrid, wafting smell,

Of bloated, hot soul-shells-

Caress cars from the road side

The lean frames and hungry eyes,

Of feral cats go slipping by-

Over oil stains and empty cans

Darkness settles in on us,

Inside our tiny mini bus-

We're on our way to meet a man

We check the ties on our wax wings,

We've heard its bright but worth the sting-

Inside the City of Angels

I'm tired

She said aloud to no one

Watching the shuffling patients file

Through whispering doors

To hallowed floors

Once spattered with blood and bile

Her mind is at ease in mountains

In forests, meadows, and glades

She longs to breathe the sea in

On these hot dense concrete days

Her aching heart is pattering

A slower sadder pace

Having in the smaller hours

Been made to feel displaced

The clotted, jerking flow

Of the hospital's sad parade

Seems a constant sorrow

Of the life that she has made.

My working man,

Has soiled hands,

His nails are lined with grease.

His calf brown eyes,

go flicking by,

the ghosts of things he's seen.

The hush hush whispered echoing,

Of the ocean, ever beckoning,

His sailing heart from home.

My working man,

Has softer hands,

Than you'd think of a sailor.

His wolffish grin,

is broader in,

Comparison to his rancor.

His Hours now are spent,

At ease with strong back bent,

Over keys instead of Pistons.

My working man,

At age 18 gave up civilian pleasures,

To sail the world,

And keep up ships,

The king of sunken treasures.

The dull ache of a familiar pain fingers its way through cracked and remodeled ribs

Your strained voice lets the suffering ooze out in small bursts

I am not sure if I am helping or not

but I try.

In between the shuddering tremors I can feel you go limp and heavy with a numbness like the crackling fuzz of a broken TV

My body responds with muscle memory

I imagine the invisible wounds you carry, untreated

Stuffed with gauze and wrapped quickly and carelessly

The burden of the yolk on your neck

Yet you stand upright

Your bones crack and your muscles ache with the weight

Yet you stand straight

Shoulders back, chest out, head up

Imperial

Yesterday a little girl smiled at me

I thought of you

And I smiled back

High desert

Umatilla.

hungover

smoking

a cheap cigar

AC

dogs

heat

head on fire with something

I can't explain save the feelings of expectation

and fear

Sunday.

people leaving church

blow around me

in white SUVs

their faces twisted and

smug

equity in Christ

they eye me as they pass

I glance at them sideways

then watch the road

hot brow

eyes red and sore

the short afternoon sun

burning wild

dirt and displacement

and small corpses

the desert is an ocean

my hands feeling old

and broken-boned

and thick

surf the radio

modern country and

evangelists

I keep it in the right lane

while the faces blow past me

on their way to somewhere terrible

not one ounce of rescue

in them

not one ounce of mercy

not one ounce

of intelligent curiosity

I check my review for the

rental truck

my buddy behind the wheel

all my belongings in the

back

and switch my thoughts to the small bar in Baker City last night

small town

a rare nightfall fast

gripping our drinks

and breathing easy in

that place

the town outside with

just enough light

to make you trust somebody

my buddy stepped outside

to have a cigarette and we laughed through the window

at a couple arguing

in full denim outfits

walking past

people eyeing us

objects of mystery

walking the street back

to our rooms

drunk

alive

back within our

element

the summer moon against

the clock tower

the smell of old Main Street

the last few survivors

beating the night

stumbling home or to

their spots behind

old buildings

we stopped and watched the clock tower

its face lit yellow in

that moonlight

a heavy metal western

I switch my mind back to the road

nothing changes out here

not the dirt

or the beauty

or the stark expanse

bleeding across the heart of escape, of youth

the faces blow around until the last exit of another town

I watch another white one

exit carefully in my rearview

their death is a lie

but regarding death

there are no better

answers.

I wait for the truck to reappear in the rearview

the road opens up into

a long dream

stark and exact

and without end

without fail

American Woman

comes in clear

over the static

an old

biker

passes me

and gives me

the devil horns

I return them with strength

while he

switches lanes in front of me

and tears off up the road

on the way

to somewhere wonderful.

Let us make the Sun

our dog

and sic it

on Hiroshima