Changing Stations

There’s a guy in the car next to us

surfing the stations

and I decide to surf mine.

I press the four buttons and skip

the missing one

and then hit SCAN.

I look up

at a green light and take my foot

off of the brake

moving it quickly to the gas.

I need to move quickly today because

I am behind on everything.



Loose belts.

Novel editing.

Kickstarter T’s.

January’s rent payment.

Stores that carry ‘92 Nissan pickup belts.

So I have to move fast because life is a race

and it’s so easy to finish the race

with nothing accomplished

and your children following in your footsteps.

I’m turning left to go to Wal-Mart

before heading to Governor’s where they carry the A\C belt

because I have to get                                              .







Not mine, but I can feel it.

I turn to my wife who is ‘Oh my Godding’ and

tell her to “come sit where I am and get our car out of the road.”

Some one is dead.

Of that I am sure.

A tan SUV never hit the brakes

and so it flipped and landed

uncatlike on its side while the guy in the TBone

is angled down into the culvert

and is sliding, with much less blood than one would imagine,

out of his crumpled door like a lazy fried egg,

thrashing in pain as if covered in ants and blind

and holding his chest and looking nowhere.


I look over at the SUV and a colorful fat lady is climbing down through the windshield.


People come from all sides to the huddle,

a few calling plays –

turn his car off

don’t move, don’t let him move

Memorial and _________, and yes it’s bad!  We need an ambulance now!

My wife leans over and stops him from moving,

talks to him

tells him what happens

each time he asks,

gives him a focal point.

He stops moving around

and I see blood in his eye

as I look for embedded glass

and lean in his car to find the radio is still playing.

I turn the car off and

lean into the door, scrunching it back against metal

so it won’t open on the guy.

His wallet is under him and

I pick it up and hold it with his keys and

give them to a busy paramedic.


I look over at the fat lady and chubbyyounggirl who are standing in the median.

They are dressed from one of those stores that rich men’s wives open in strip centers because they are bored.

The kind that sell gaudy blandishments for ridiculous prices.

The girl jumps straight up and down and whines for her daddy.

Neither plump is visibly hurt.

Neither plump has walked over to check on the man in limbo.


I wonder if she was on the phone and have a sudden urge to grab her

by her fatblondehead and drag her across glass and metal

punching her in the face along the way

over to the man whose life/song she interrupted

and make her –


“Can you drive a stick shift?”

A strange question in the now.

A lady left her truck in the turning lane.

A five speed.

I make my way across four lanes

very carefully

and move it,


very carefully



I am

handing over a stranger’s keys for the second time this day.


I want to remember what song was playing on his radio.

And on mine.

So I can cross reference them and pour my metaphysics

into them when I think of

paths and milliseconds and God.





Baptist Outpatient

I had my Religion out this morning.


These days it’s an outpatient,

not like ages ago when the king himself

had to forcibly remove it.


I couldn’t go to church for six months prior,

they didn’t want me to read my bible for 5 weeks prior,

tithing anywhere was just out of the question

ever since the first doctor’s visit,

wasn’t allowed to pray,

to any specific entity, anyway,

couldn’t say things happen for a reason

without mentioning cause and effect,

had to sign a disclaimer that I understood

I would no longer be seriously considered

for political positions,

but I could keep my church membership

cause church’s have tons of members that don’t practice anyway,

I couldn’t dress nice on Sundays

unless I also dressed nice through the week,

couldn’t give glib responses to complex questions

while donning an all-knowing smile,

had to pick a random foreigner and

start a conversation with them,

had to read the classics,

Plato, Aristotle, Socrates,

and for some reason

even though I was getting my religion out

I had to read books on other religions,

had to read Hitchens, articles on Westboro Baptist,

magazines on war in the Middle East,

lots of reading for some reason,

couldn’t watch Lifetime and had to watch R-rated movies

with dirty words and sex scenes with unmarried people,

had to listen to rock-n-roll and Marylin Manson and John Lennon,

had to drink a six pack over the weekend,

couldn’t participate in any function that contained

interpretive dance,

had to say the phrase, ‘No fucking way!’

in a crowded restaurant loud enough for people

to overhear,

had to spank my kids if they misbehaved

instead of just reasoning with them,

had to watch all the Harry Potter films,

utter the phrase, ‘Protego’ at myself in a mirror

then shake uncontrollably while pretending to have

caused an infinite paradox,

could not tuck my shirt in,

had to surf the Internet for porn,


and I had to do all this before they would even consider

taking it out.


They said while they were in there they went ahead and

removed what they could of my Guilt.


But I know they didn’t get it all

because I sometimes feel like I did a bad thing

by having it out.




Giving Alms

pic credit

I'll tell you the problem
with Faith.

Its bias.

No one has faith in something that they don't like.

That they don't agree with.
That they look down on.
That smells.
That makes them uncomfortable.
That they fear and loath.
That doesn't give them hope.
That doesn't promise infinite happiness.
That isn't a reason for everything.
That doesn't love you unconditionally.

If Faith wasn't so biased,
we could have it in our fellow man.



pic credit

When I was living
I left fear voids,
an embarrassed unspeaker of things that
should be said,
comforting things,
cool bed covers on a summer’s day things.
Each well thought out novel excerpt
bottled up into an awkward moment’s
silent little soliloquy.

Each repressed emoticon
too cliché,
too much like a movie line,
rehearsed sounding,
as if mumbled sideways by some sappy poet
ready to expose my delicate ego
to some mirage of infinite possible responses,
or worse,
left desolate in wide open silence.

It was these Unspoken things
that were swallowed by swift moments,
hesitations led by a tug-boat of doubt,
slow moving but of powerful persuasion
tightening the unsure rope around the words
on the tip
and dragging them to the back of my
remorseful throat.

And the dead drew tears.

They would never know the words
I had kept to myself.

Then I died
and went to a place
similar to what you’d think
and they sat me gently down
at a wooden desk and slid a book under my nose.

The title was simple:

The authors were many
and line one chapter one read
“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean that.”

And the living drew tears.