The Wild

We drove around
the city
in a beat up
used car
with no money
and
no direction.
Our love was
loud
and furious.
We drank
warm beer
on park benches
and lived
off fast food.
Her mother
hated me
and everything
was a blur.
We fought
all day
and made love
all night.
But that
old car
never
let us down:
it carried us
down avenues,
down highways,
out past
the city,
past the farms
and the graveyards,
deep out
into the
wild.

Alone

Outside
thunder rumbles
through the clouds
as I sit
in my bedroom
wondering
how it all went wrong.
Maybe it was you;
maybe it was me.
Mostly,
it was me,
with the vodka,
fighting
and insanity.
I want to
call you,
write a letter,
reach out,
explain things
somehow.
But I don't.
I just
sit in my room,
alone,
listening to the rain
pound on the roof.

Palm Tree Ashtray

A man stands
outside
a gas station
begging
for spare change.
His eyes
sink into his skull;
his white shirt
is stained
with grease.
I walk up
and hand him
two dull grey quarters.
He thanks me
and tells me
he's been sleeping
outside
for two weeks.
"This too shall
come to pass," I say.
He nods his head.
Two pretty girls
in short shorts
climb into
a brand new car.
The store manager
comes out
and tells the man
to leave.
He walks away
and waves
goodbye.
It's hot out
in the parks tonight;
hot enough
to melt
hope.

Noise

The world
is a loud
cacophony
of sounds;
the noise
makes my head
throb
and ache.
Stressed out
suburban mothers
yell into cell phones;
shiny new cars
scream
down the highway.
I almost
can't stand it
sometimes.
I want to
push a button
and shut it all
off.
No matter
where I go,
it
follows me.
But you
were so quiet,
with your stray cats,
sly grin,
and pale hands
that held on to mine
in the
soft quiet
of this
dark bedroom.

Fake Tans and Beer

I launch a
ping pong ball
into a red Solo cup.
Girls in
short shorts
with frayed ends
stumble around
the living room.
It's a sea of
warm bodies
sipping vodka
and chain-smoking.
I see a girl
on the porch
standing next to
a beer keg.
I pick up my drink
and walk towards her.


Later that morning,
lying next to her
in bed,
I get a slow,
sick feeling
coming over my body.
It starts in
my stomach
and winds all the way
to my head.
I cough,
roll over,
and try to fall
back to sleep.
Outside,
a garbage truck
pulls up
to carry away the trash.
The sound rattles
through the bedroom,
through my mind,
to the very core
of my being.

A Long Pause in a Small Town

This town feels
empty at night.
I wander the streets
and see
beat up cars
drive the strip
and tired faces
frown
in the darkness.


Two kids
on dirt bikes
cruise past me
in front of
a gas station.
They swear
at each other,
spit
and keep riding.


I know she's
out there:
some pouty faced
creature
just looking
for love.


I stare out
at the street,
slowly sipping
my iced coffee.

24

She is tall and lanky
and struts past me
as I sit on a bench
outside of a busy Walgreen's.


I call out to her;
she vaguely remembers me
from a meeting
six months ago.


We begin to talk.
"I've relapsed," she says.
She has a brown bag full of wine
on her thin, white lap.


We talk some more
about meetings
and her new job
and a car payment that is due.


After awhile,
there is nothing left to say.


She excuses herself
and I watch her walk away,
one towering beauty
stumbling towards the void.