You Can Have It

This is earthquake
country. You see it all
wrong from these eyes.
We trekked across
the country just
to find the wrong coast.
Your finish line is our
mother, we can't run
towards her watchful eye.
You can have your manifest
destiny, but don't
expect me to stand still.
She trembles, she's breaking
away she's so scared.
I see the stars in your
eyes, but you've got
it all wrong - you and
everybody else since 1849.

California sat in flames

California sat in flames
on my last night. In
one sky the sun lay
pink ablaze, in the other
the moon hung high
awhispering. The day drifted
into gray night, or both
at the same time, something
or other. Like another empty
drudge we waved and said
our goodbyes - the day
and me that is - without really
turning to look
back - not because we
didn't care but because it didn't
really matter. Like all
the scorched gray we're just
moving on and along, without much
direction; forward could be
up or left, right or down, or backwards. The moon
takes charge and smiles through
the darkness. With a sigh
the two of us fall from
ahigh and disappear the next morning.

Everything is quiet and still

Everything is quiet
and still. I hope everything
isn't frantic for you.
After the war sighs last
longer and twist discouragingly through
dinner conversations, overbearing
and infecting the air that binds
us. We're never the same.
On Sundays we pretend
we're still nice and unaffected.

Just before running away I
watch my father waste away
in his old chair, gripping his
newspaper as if holding
it tighter could somehow save
us all, confirming my belief
that there's no signs of life
left. I stare off at the misty
morning moon, awaken in the middle
of the day dream, miles off
and alone and whisked
away in some stranger's car.
He held me close
before he hit me, before he left
me on the side of the road. He sped away
and I was somehow happier, cold
and possessionless, champion
of the fate whose face I
ignored, distant and dark.

Just before its bleakest the sun shines
the most. I tremble for warmth,
shine brightest with no one around;
the deserted and desolate befriend
me. I couldn't say I was truly surviving
until I didn't know I'd survive another day.

Unfinished/Untitled

Well, Jesus lays in the backseat quivering; his beads clanking together as he counts them and he whispers softy to his mother. We're rushing away wildfire - we're never quick enough - damn high wire act called life. Whisked away I see hallelujah in the stars and all the greater glory in the highway divider, hear angles singing over the tires’ squeal, and heaven shines in his eyes just before his body lunges right through the windshield towards the asphalt. The crucifix hanging from the rear view mirror taps my head and taunts me as I lay nestled in the warm virgin mother grasp of the air bag. Everything glows before it fades. We never quite make it, but we're always on time.