the only child

what if God got tired
moved on to bigger and better things
told his son to cut his hair and get a job, then
sent him back to us
what if Jesus is getting drunk at some bar in Texas.
not a carpenter anymore, but
a mechanic,
a part time poet
taking comfort in rust, and
failing livers
signs of time
he can taste some truth at the bottom of the bottle
and the drugs
they decide whats real or not
if that even matters.
last call, and
he tries to scribble down words in the right order
to disrupt order by using words
still fascinated by rust and time
his failing liver
this time he can only die for his own sins

time to appreciate

in old westerns
some poor guy always gets shot in the stomach.
a good guy, but not the lead.
it may take hours,
sometimes days
to die from such injuries.
slow,
painful, but
a good way to go i believe.
just enough time
to lose all shame
or ambitions.
total freedom
and the time to appreciate.
as you drift into a dream
the gaping, gushing hole
speaks to you
a promise of rest.
that is how i would leave
i'm a good guy
but i was never the lead

but now i'm crying

crawling, yes I'm crawling
then i'm running
the crack in the ground
growing larger
my shoes are blue and I'm running
people yelling, grabbing money from my hands
now they are pointing
crawling. i yell back
the sky is black, but now i'm laughing
crack in the ground, tearing us apart
people fall in, and i'm laughing louder
then crying from the stinging guilt and shame
angry hands take my alcohol away
uniforms look upon me with suspicious eyes
and the sun is up forever
where beauty breaks like glass
and i sit and sit and sit
and i'm crying

little dog, old man

i have a small dog
a chihuahua
she is not even two years old
despite her age and sex
she reminds me of an old man
patient and wise
little dog, old man
sometimes i think she is my best friend
when she takes me for a walk
she slows me down
helps me pay attention to the details
the small things that make up the day
little dog, old man
i love you for your loyalty
you are weary of strangers
always honest
little dog, old man
she wants to go everywhere with me
and when i leave her
she howls by the window
like a small wolf
and when i return she bites my nose
little dog, old man
i wish i was more like you

before i go to bed

christmas, almost
out on my porch
kind of cold for california, but
i'm out here every night
sucking on that last cigarette
i've come to enjoy these palm-trees
better in the dark
and the two black men that are slowly passing by
one always talking
about things i don't know
the other listening, like me
trying to understand
his voice reminds me of a book i once read
but the moon distracts me
from remembering it's name
right now it feels like i've always been happy
but i know that can't be true
i wonder if the moon can hear us howling
so does the men, talking
gone in the dark

sit

have you ever seen a hummingbird sit?
i have
they always seem to be flapping their wings
yet going nowhere.
i was wearing only a scream back then
displaying my sick tongue
fluttering my fingers at the air.
perhaps it wasn't a hummingbird
but my last sincere dream
resting for a moment to shake it's head at me.
whatever it was,
it made me small
then i forgot about it
until now.