We all keep our
eye to the peephole.
Cookies are the
business cards of
our 5 and Dimes.
Brick and mortar
slain like the
buffalo on the
plains.
In this age
I buy books
and boots,
jerk off to
electronic boobs
I tweet
and they swoon.
I keep my eye
for an eye
to the peephole
for a peephole.
I let them see.
They see
the scars
and the vomit,
boogers and
Hep C.
They see
the ugliest part
of me,
if they put
an eye to
the peephole.
Fair exchange
because I see
the daughters
of dozens of dads
smile at my words
and warm
my old broken heart.
I see jazzmen
in Ireland
Travis picking
hillbilly tunes,
the songs of my father
and theirs.
I see stylized motifs,
India's truck art,
beautiful work
by Haider Ali,
and her street markets
with colors just
as rich.
I peek into the most
intimate of places,
as others share
their private thoughts.
Like early morning stoned
tattoo artists afraid
of dying before
understanding
how the ocean's
bed is made.
Like lonely new
teens who purge
and sing beautiful words,
and artists who cut pain
into their skin,
as if crying is a sin.
I am alone at the door,
but it is the humanity
I see
when I keep my eye
to the peephole.
