by on 
silence is the aim.
the danger of the written word is 
someone might read it
someone could understand what the writer
was saying
someone could feel the emotion through the paper
the tears that formed the ink
someone might understand what was written
someone might realize that the person that wrote
saw something they couldn’t understand
and wanted to correct it
but they didn’t know how
all they could do was write words
all they could do was document what was happening
all they could do was share and hope someone heard
and then hope someone said something to another
someone said something to another person

it's just a little girl
he’s a boy that doesn’t want to be afraid
a father trying to do better for his family
a mother that knows
what happens
to children
and she’d rather risk
their lives
than let it happen
without fighting

the aim is silence
they fight drugs
and want you distracted by them
by fighting for them
by thinking it is oppressive that you can’t
get high
get drunk
get stoned
get stupid

did you know that she was sitting by the Clover?
no one knows
no one heard the whimper
wall street
fifth avenue
main street wherever
megaphones should deafen the ears of everyone
we should be on our knees
collapsed and suffering
because she was only a little girl that 
wanted to smell the clovers

how come no one’s paying attention
how come no one can see what’s going on
are you deaf
are you stupid
are you dumb
are you blind

question
why can’t we help someone
why do we have to accept this is how things are
why can’t we change the way it is
why do they fight change
why do they hate it
hate us
hate everyone

i know
we are wired for enlightenment
we all want to know and understand
but every side and piece of land on this planet
is ruled over by kings that want silence

look away
close your eyes
forget what you see
silence
silence
she stopped moaning
no one helped her
no one did anything
i got hit in the head
with the butt of a gun
because I started running
did you know 
she just wanted to smell the clovers

by on

In an old hunting lodge on the grounds of an ancient Norman castle in Abergavenny, Wales, a small, extinct dog peers out of a handmade wooden display case.

“Whiskey is the last surviving specimen of a turnspit dog, albeit stuffed,” says Sally Davis, longtime custodian at the Abergavenny Museum.

The Canis vertigus, or turnspit, was an essential part of every large kitchen in Britain in the 16th century. The small cooking canine was bred to run in a wheel that turned a roasting spit in cavernous kitchen fireplaces.

by on

It was quarter after eight and just near the point of freezing as we turned into the parking lot.  A year prior, we’d entered in to see a small, blue pickup truck that displayed allegiance to ideologies pertaining to paler flesh. The gentleman that was driving made several aggressive moves towards pedestrians, slamming on his brakes before colliding.  We saw him – oblivious to what around him – do it one more time before our city’s finest. The officer pulled right behind him and boxed him in, and put an end to his evening’s fun. On exiting the establishment, the truck remained, but like the driver, the flag was gone.

That moment came to mind, last night, as we were greeted by another flying flag, as we made our entrance to the parking lot – night time’s blanket barely broken by the light that shone from the corner of the building. Just as we pulled into the drive, we were startled by a young man on a bike, head bedecked in a red-checked keffiyah, and secured, and flying high above the man and bike was a giant, Iraqi flag. The man rode past without looking at us looking at him, his face frozen in a state of sure defiance. He rode on, onto the shoulder of the road with traffic passing by at highway speeds. In the dark, in the cold – flag, regardless.

by on

He looks into me now, and smiles. 
His eyes are softer than they were
even a few years before:
He still presumes i am generally wrong,
regardless of the topic – he’s made me
more thoughtful
and less judgmental of opinions.

More curious.

He still taps madly at his keyboard,
contributing to papers
long past the age that most
have abandoned vocational pursuits
i doubt he’s any longer paid much of anything,
but i’m glad he’s still engaged.

Thirty minutes later
i sweep all the thoughts that follow
into a box and
close them in
beneath the lid. 
Thoughts decomposing
into fragmenting ribbons…

by on

I was talking with Kenny.  I was thinking about buying a car to do some travelling, and he was bragging about his truck:  It was a white Comanche, blue interior.  He’d done some customization on it – that little shade thing over the front window, covers on the taillights and I believe he’d modified the suspension.  He was very proud of that truck.

To me, it seemed impractical.  I said, Kenny, man – why a truck? He explained it was, in fact, a matter of practicality: They’re cheap – they cost a lot less than a car.

I bought my first truck in 1992, a Ford Ranger that pumped exhaust into the cab with vinyl seats, rubber flooring, metal roof and no power steering – a five-year old, five-speed special for a thousand dollars: Transportation on the cheap.

When I was young…

It was recently reported that eight GM trucks worth about $640,000 total were stolen in Flint — one was used to smash into an ATM, Michigan State Police said.

Things were different, I say to the kids…

by on

Entering Arlington,
passage moves through fields of infantry,
graves of soldiers lost in trenches,
on Higgins boats,
foxholes in Vietnam,
barracks in Beirut,
Iraq and Afghanistan.
The climb rises to the rarefied air of admirals
and colonels,
before the crest is reached
at the majestic memorial amphitheater,
and the tomb of the unknown soldier
that lies before it. 
The ritualistic vigil of the sentinel,
and the somber changing of the guard
is profound to see
a striking reminder to appreciate
those that have allowed us quibble in the petulance
of politic, et cetera,
to appreciate those that volunteer
despite ourselves.

by on

It’s been several years and I’m still standin’ here
time goes by then just disappears
all the words i swear to get away from here
– same words I’ve heard for so many years

So many years just disappear when you don’t know where you’re goin’
i’ve tried lookin’ for tomorrow – end up lost in days i’ve known
all the times i’ve gone lookin’ for a place to call my home
no matter where i run to, end up standin’ here alone

I look above – feel like i’m fallin’ in the sky
i call into the wind but get no reply
i remember days i thought i’d race against the wind
and i swear someday, i’ll be there again

Now there’ve been times i’ve turned the page but the words were all the same
any time i choose a road i’m headin’ back the way i came
i’ve dreamed of gettin’ out of here but i never found the way
it seems like i’ve tried everything but nothing really changed

Now, my desires have grown, but lead me nowhere
i just want to get away from here

I call above, feels like i’m fallin’ in the sky
i call into the wind but get no reply
i remember days i thought i’d race against the wind
i swore some day – i’d be there again

– circa 1992

by on

The sun was shining, just like the sun is shining as I look across the water: Over water that stole the prior twenty-seven years – almost three decades spent behind steel bars; on concrete floors. I watch black liquid lapping languidly against the shore: Tendrils dragging shoreline slowly underneath the surface like I’ve watched them pull, before.

The sun was shining, the air was warm; her smile, even more.

I stare across the lapping water and remember looking in her eyes. I see her smile.

I close my eyes.

They close against the present. Against a chance to live a life I never had. They close against the loss, and fear, and desperation – complete helplessness.

Eyes can never close for long: Because I see it.

I see her body dripping from our swim. I see her smile. I feel her tender fingers slip into my own. And, I see her eyes: Panic – it choked the single word she spoke, one word to express the terror felt, a single mote that raised my fear, confusion; that asked for help. She spoke my name. She called out, “Tom?” And all I thought to answer, was, “What is going on?”

The last words she heard before the water pulled.

I stand enclosed in quiet behind the windows that seal the patio. I see the water that stole her life and mine. I see the looks of neighbors in their yards, eyes casting disapproval that I’ve returned.

I was trying to pull her out, not hold her down.

by on

i reached out as she ran toward me down grand river
hair disheveled — strewn in tears
called out
y’alright

i wish i’d had capacity for something more
a lame excuse: my head was just a stew of wreck
i let her pass

regret

by on

Eastside Willie had just finished dropping off a load down around the area considered the south end of what was once referred to as Pole town, before — like’s been done so many times before, at black bottom, China town, Cork town — a development uprooted the firmly planted, fully functioning community.  He was tired, pissed off and looking forward to a drink:  Just ripped off on the job — worse, knowing he should have demanded cash up front.

It was about eight o’clock as he merged his creaky truck onto the freeway, and — you know how it is down there:  Not much visibility until you’re on the lane.  He hit the brakes hard, but the woman in the other car wasn’t looking and he had no place to go – concrete wall to the right – and he leaned on his horn.  She finally looked over and braked — not a helpful move — and he clipped the back end.  Nothing major, just a dent on her back bumper, but she had a fit and gave him shit — made him talk to her agent on the scene.

Old, weary Willie spoke soft, quiet, slow; said it’s just about like she said:  He hit her with the truck.  He offered the little cash he had on hand, but she wouldn’t budge and pressed on with a claim.  Like every other time the cops are called, they didn’t show.  Not the city’s fault this time, since the state police took over the patrol after that incident on the Lodge back in the 70’s.

Fortunately, the agent was local and knew the scene, and told them both to go since everything was fairly well established and Willie had no problem with the truth. 

This state’s a funny place though, and it turned out that the young lady had a bit to pay — an amount collectible in turn, from the party that holds the blame.

That little incident was just a cap to a long and extraordinarily discouraging day, and Willie — more tired yet and ready to be done — drove straight on to a suburb where his brother lived, not bothering going home: Knowing he’d get an earful. He hoped his brother would join him for a drink before had to face it.  But a guy like Willie, in a truck like that, was a target as soon as he’d made the exit.

You never know what sort of things might be sitting around in back, after hauling off a load — and who would think to check? 

The officer thought to check, and he presented the evidence of serious drug crimes to Willie at the scene:  A single syringe, no doubt with traces of something internecine.

Willie was born on a farm in Tennessee, where his father had worked since he was a child.  They left when Willie was about the age of 10, headed to the city that always claimed more promise than it could deliver. But his father was a fortunate one, and pulled down a job at Mr. Ford’s, and the family of six shoe-horned into an overpriced flat in one of the split up mansions on the edge of downtown. Willie still holds that shitty little home as the fondest place of memory, his 4 more siblings joining while they lived there. However, another economic downturn and growing roboticism ended that brief interlude, and his father died of heart failure shortly after he was fired. 

Willie began helping others in the neighborhood and started bringing in a decent sum doing work on cars and small engines.  That ended when the city came through and razed all the homes down there, for some planned development that has yet to take place.

The family moved into a complex that had a whole new dynamic, and after he finished high school, Willie joined the marines just to get away.  He spent 8 years in service, and while he did, his family split apart and fled to other towns.  But Willie came back, still thinking fondly of the home they used to have, and of the city where he grew up and that he loved.  But coming back he found that jobs were scarce, and he wound up unemployed and on his own, unsure where the future followed.

It was at the unemployment office that he met his wife.  She gave him hope again and renewed his energy and for a while they ran a little dive down by the Bluebird bakery.  But then that closed and it seemed as if the neighborhood withdrew, and it left them hanging on some debt with a newborn baby — little Will.  Willie never took a moment’s rest and worked it out that all their debts could be attached to their house, managing to finagle one of the old trucks from the bakery in the deal.

He worked any job he could find, never turning down anything if there was a dime to make — the ethic instilled by his father.  An ethic, in fact, that permeates a great deal of the city:  People came here for the work.  Every job that opens brings down hundreds of applications — for anything: Delivering pizzas, delivering the papers, manual labor, office labor.  Before 2008, the prime jobs were in the little shops — but that’s now ended after the latest regurgitation:  Everybody fired across the board then offered back their jobs for half the pay and no more benefits, working 7 days a week, 12 hour shifts if so’s the whim — and don’t question it or you’ll get replaced.

Willie never took to any of those and finally established his trade in the early 90’s, finding the misfortune of others could lead to a modest fortune for himself in re-sale of the curbed, or simply getting paid to move it all away.  That paid off well enough for a decade and a half that he could pay off everything they owed and send off Will to college — the first one in the family to ever graduate!  Willie speaks proudly of his son, working for a firm down in Lexington.  He likes to brag that his son has done so well he brings in Willie’s lifetime total, ten times over in just a year!  He’s never taken a penny from him, though, even though he offers.

But this city’s a funny place, where anytime something happens, things get strange.  And so it was with Willie’s work, that just when the massive exodus occurred, seemingly opening up an abundance of fortune — others arrived, laws were passed, firms were brought in for the task.  Where there’s money, there will be those affiliated with the politicians…

He gets along alright — alright.  Nothing owed, not many needs.  His wife takes care of the home and watches some of the neighborhood kids when their parents have to work.  It doesn’t bother him, he just takes it as it comes — watches all the changes, watches as things change where he once lived.  Watches all the money suddenly pour in and all the youngsters with no need for his opinion.

Lots of bikes racing over the sacred ground where his family’s flat once stood. 

Businesses change, buildings re-opened, roads re-done — all good.  All priced out of anything Willie can obtain.  He’s worked his whole life and should probably be retired, but truth be told, he’ll probably never rest until he’s in his grave.  He laughs when his son talks about taking vacation:  He never had one and probably wouldn’t know what to do if he did.

His wife started talking that maybe they should leave — it’s a city that doesn’t offer love in return.  They’re getting pinched while all the money, all they resources pour into what used to be the neighborhood where he lived, worked, where he no longer feels he’s welcome.  Where his livelihood is a mockery and disdained.  Where he is ignored, dismissed, by the oblivious that don’t see a truck pulling on to a freeway, and like idiots — brake — when he lays on his horn to warn them he’s entering the lane.

The insurance agent phoned Willie’s home, and the call was answered by his wife.  He explained the reason for the call and asked if Willie might have some time.  Politely, his wife explained, “I’m sorry, sir — but Willie’s been detained.”

by on

The beat of the street fades
with another casualty to the monolithic syphon
continuing to devour the very soul
Relegated with all the imperfect characters
words that rattled through broken, coffee-stained teeth,
to chase off kids with mock menace
and timorous taunt
sometimes reflective apprehension
persevering despite decay’s demand for dissolution.
Falling bricks of the Laikon
make room for another skyway 
to lift more feet off the street
to join the relic memory with Cyprus, International,
Hellas and all the coffee shops.
Stella’s come-on, appropriated for profit:  
The promise of a rancid, toothless kiss
replaced by the promise of riches;
the hit of a baton, by a hit to your wallet.