COOL BY DEFAULT

The 1970

Chevy Nova

my parents

gave me

when I was

old enough

had been

the family car.

for my sake,
they covered 

the forest green

with jet

black paint

and a red

pinstripe.

With a little
help from
my uncle,
they turned
the 325 engine

into a 375.

it sounded

pretty damned

good, to tell you

the truth. 

I remember

peeling out
once, not from

arrogance or rage

but because

nancy bucaro

was driving her

family's van

next to me.

afraid of rolling
in front of a girl,
I popped
the clutch too fast
and the wheels
spun out.
Guess I 
still wasn't

too good at

working the

four on the floor.

COMFORTER

I want to touch you

in the middle

of a formerly

snowy night

after the clouds

have cleared

where you lay

on your left side,

where your supple

body is turned

toward the window

where the curtains

are still as angels

where the moon

falls

through the

irregular slats

of your blinds

like a pearl-colored

comforter.

MODERN MONK

I'm a monk with

a television and

a brand new iPhone.

My mantras are slogans.

My chakras have sponsors.

Meditation comes between

commercials for dish soap

and pick-up trucks.

I text as much as I chant.

Is it hard, people ask,

to find enlightenment

in today's world?

You'd already know my answer,

I answer, if you had stopped

to read my latest

facebook status

update.

JAWBREAKER IN JANUARY

After the suns sets

the whole moon rises

over the last hill

like a white jawbreaker.

it reminds me of

my childhood,

of the days when even

a single piece of candy

was as heavenly as the

new Winter moon. 

As heavenly that one,

right there.

DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL

Like static on a car radio,

your signal is intermittent.

The airwaves are gluttons

for interference, so i only

get part of the patter,

a meaningless message,

a snippet of song.

THE LONG BAR (1984)

ten at night.

six or eight of us

piled into a cab

at the san diego

border and headed

to T.J.

the cab was out 

of space, so 

I splayed myself

across the laps

of my posse

as some Culture Club song

played on the shitty

FM radio. we broke

Mexican traffic laws 

all the way to

Revolucion Avenue.

Near eleven, we
walked

the crowded streets

smelled the meat

cooking on the grills

of the taco carts

drank and laughed

in the shithole

bars along the main drag

Just after midnight, as we ventured

back to our own world,

I hooted at the five dollar 

ceramic frogs that sat

like bloated guards 

by the border fence 

and I stared half-drunk 

at the five year olds

who sold the tourists Chiclets

in the exhaust clouds of

the taxi lines.

Moments later, back in

the states,

I remember that

one blonde's arms

around my waist
as we walked to our cars
and as the black

shadows below us
inched

their way across

the darkened arroyo.

DOING IT ONE MORE TIME

it's sweet to get

the word down

while soft jazz

emanates from

the boombox

a cool drink

on the desk

as you put down

what it was like

in the old days

a memory or two

from decades ago

or maybe one small

portrait from the

present

a few words 

from just the

other night

when you were

in the kitchen

and heard a coyote

cry in the open

space just beyond

the backyard.