Reflective Walking

We should have been bearing
something dead. It could have been

the crow still on the corner,
it’s brother downtown, or my own

identity. We walked silent, almost
in stride and we looked solemn.

I know what they were thinking,
carefully putting foot in front of foot,

intentionally placing perfect
thoughts of deep value–we care–

into a selfless self-reflection.
Are they better people for it?

I thought of him paying the man
forty bucks to never speak to him

again and using me as an excuse
to ignore the way his world would

like to pay him homage. I thought
of putting aside my hate of dog hair

and what that means
for the colors of a mural.

I thought about how much more
alive I would be if it were raining,

if I were walking faster or if
I were alone. Don’t you know how

pretentious you seem clasping
your own hands behind your back?

Don’t you know that silence and
reflection do not necessitate beauty?

I get angry when you stop
to inspect the tree in a new light

only because you now believe
it is the time to do so. The time

was yesterday. The time is tomorrow.
It was the first time you walked

past that tree and did not notice.
And while peace swept over the fleet

that pulled me with it, I thought
about drinking Jameson, about being

better in bed and trying to lose weight.
The crows to my left and right

are much more clever. Tonight,
they pick the world apart. The only

image I grasped was of the wolf,
black and leering from the darkness,

close enough to almost touch. Still,
I wondered. And I got nowhere.

A Love Story

Escape: was there this need
before? Did you not embrace
the essence of words?

You establish false normalcy

people of America, fear not change

and slowly, upon tip-toes,
and behind a slender smile

the true Patriot doubts not

the betrayal begins. At first:
a thought. At last: an act, some lies.
A pretty picture placed

before the safe, it is your own
beautiful creation; your least
favorite picture in the house.

A Game of Sorts

I heard from a friend that after he punched the old man in the head,

he hurried back into the 7-11, adrenaline-crazy, bloodthundering in

the excitement of his crime, to spit out boasts, the kind he thought

would sound good on their ears, and maybe they did.

Back outside, the old man lay on cold concrete, a familiar place with

a foreign angle. The kid returned, this time not alone and drunker

than he’d ever been on his own power, power, perhaps, he always

thirsted for. Junkie on a search. Muscle bulging juiced. His Nikes struck

the old man a dozen times before the end: the ribs, the face, the head,

a unique experience for each party, and by the time a stranger, who this time

shall play the part of sanity, pulled into the corner lot on the busy street,

scared the cowards off, called 911, it was too late. Now,

standing for the camera, we see: pathetic, not strong, not someone’s baby.

And his tears: incapable of calling back the innocence he readily relinquished

in fights and knives and words like, “fuck,” thinking guns, blood, strength

were all he needed to be king, if only temporarily, to a corner of this dying city.

The Haves

I.