Alone

The best
conversation
he ever had
was
through the glass
with his
celly's wife
because that dude
was solid
and felt bad
for anybody
with
no family
or friends.
His days
went
uninterrupted
by television,
or vocation.
His nights
uncorrupted
by pillow
or wife.
He kept
company instead
with a ballet
of words on
the page,
a symphony
of syntax.

Days he
spent with
masters-
Carver, Ciardi,
Carruth.
Nights,
his own demons,
dark muses
and booze.
These days it
seems
like everybody
knows him,
the parties,
the readings,
the girls.
Snarky banter
with sculptors
and shared
eye rolls
with pompous film makers
and bitches
from CNN.
These days
it all seems
like bullshit.
These days
are for feeling
alone.

Mama said there ain't no poetry.

In my childhood
the poets were thick
as mosquitoes
clouding around
a screen door
after someone
failed to turn out
the porch light,

children played
ignorant of prejudice
and division because
everyone was
the same color
where I
come from.

We didn't know
the difference
between Methodists
and Baptists,
there were
no other gods yet,
We hadn't learned
to hate.

The old women
loved us all
with pretties and
sweets,
and young folks
still fell in love.

When I was
a kid
the cotton patches
seemed endless
and Little Rock
was huge,
my entire world
was Mama and Dad,
three sisters,
two brothers
and me.

My mother
eventually told
me.

And television.

The books I read
under covers
and darkness.

Folks out there
shouted nigger
and queer-
they tore down one
another
hoping to
lift themselves up,

Mama said
there ain't
no poetry
in that.

Attrition

I come
from a
proud family,
we
are readers
of books.
We mowed
the grass
short
and took baths
regular
and always
on Saturday
night.
We ate around
the same table,
ground beef
dishes,
and vegetables
from the
garden.
Wonderbread
stacked neatly
on a saucer.
Mom and Dad
both worked
and my
sisters learned
mothering
early,
my brothers
were quick
to jobs.
I was tempted
young
by a 30 unit
muse
with a dirty
southern drawl.
I did bad shit.
Mostly
I'm proud
I lived
through it.

Sweet

Showers
and screwing
are the biggest
distractions
but I don't
miss laying
down never-enough
layers on
August asphalt,
making my
bed in Sheol,
soaking wet
with sweat,
hotter
than hell.
I don't miss
the loneliness
of crowded
sidewalks, and
the invisibility
of the tragically
poor.
I don't miss
standing outside
the Robinson
hoping for
cast-off butts
and loose change
but dreaming
of a seat
near the feet
of a beautiful
cellist making
love with life
and sound,
pulling tears
followed by
laughter
from deep within
who I am,
really.
I will not
miss the sadness
of cast away
family the
fifth or sixth
day of the
month,
check smoked up-
left for us,
the most broken,
to take care of.
We can't
care for ourselves.
I don't miss
letting my mama
down.
Letting you down.
Letting everyone down
for so long.
I won't miss
a chance to
say so.

Bitter

I miss
shuckin' and
jivin' on
street corners,
2 a.m.,
and the bravado
that comes
with pin prick
highs and
self- destruction
cocktails.
I miss the
other-worldly
beauty, and the
out of focus
of being stoned.
The muted tones
and colors,
the edges
of everything
soft.
I miss the
romance
of a broken heart
with none of
it's pain.
I miss the whoop
of downtown
cruisers and
friendly cops
shouting move
along then
hanging out to talk
a minute, just
a couple of guys.
I miss
cowboy mornings
and steam rising
from a snow
covered bedroll
as I wake
near rivers edge
then hot/bitter
coffee and grits
with the rest
of the tramps
at the Sally.

Book by the Cover

Her name was Cheyenne
and she was

a ten times
cooler than me

a hundred years
younger and

thousands of miles
away in L.A.

but I guess she
used to live here

and knew all the
hippest cats

the ones I thought
might dig my shit.

She took the
coolest selfies,

and was damn near
the frog tape girl.

I watched her live
in social media

like people watched
"Friends" in the nineties,

Cheyenne took
the best selfies,

Think I'll use for
the cover of a book.

Still

Mom used to
step on
the chocolate
milk.

She would
every once
in a great while
buy a
half a gallon
of store brand
chocolate
milk-

no bunnies
or zany cowboy
logos at
extra cost-

then she'd
refill the gallon
of "white"
milk, pour
the sweet treat
over a half
gallon plain
making it
less rich.
No less tasty.

Mama had 6 kids,
watched nickels
and dimes.

She stepped on
the milk but
I never got
used to it
any other way.

I drink it
that way
still.

Prayer

I don't believe
in god
but I'd really
like to,
and I often get
a sort of
magic feeling
at sun-up
if I'm alive
and sober,
so damn
reassuring
still.

I try not to
worry
about if
there is or
if
there ain't,
but it pisses me
off - if you're
the daddy why
then so many
hungry
crying kids.
Worse.

My Granny
loved Jesus
and I reckon
most everybody
else
but he don't
make them like
her
anymore and if
he were real,
he
would.

I can't believe

in believe

in heaven but
it's been hell on
Earth since I
strayed from
Daddy's preachin'
and that heavy
leather
book.

I don't believe
in nothing but
I don't mind
my momma
praying
so long as it makes
her feel good,
she prays for me
and it don't
hurt
none.