sold!

they took the chairs.
they had been gifts.
from a life
that happened way back when.
will you take $100, he asked,
then said:
because they haven’t been weather-proofed.
he said, yes, then went inside.
they were just chairs
but
he
didn’t want
to watch
them
go.

the music

We all came from pretty ragged circumstances, actually. Ralph’s father had just left him, his sister and his mom for good. John’s old man beat him. Harry’s parents were about as absent as parents could be. My mother was religious to a craze and manic as the day was long. She wasn’t against smacking us around in the Name of God. Sidney, Floyd and Andy – who really knew much of anything about them? At any given time it seemed at least two of them were on the run from one thing or another.

But what we all had, too, was the music. We all had the music. “Dancin’ in the Streets.” “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg.” “My Girl.” The list seemed endless – and for a while it was. The hits just kept coming, rolling out from Detroit and to us through that Windsor, Ontario, radio station we all listened to. And while we listened to it and while we played it, the music got us through what needed to be gotten through. In fact, it kept some of us alive. Most important, it kept hope alive.

resolute

he resolves himself
to fate.
he resigns himself
to fate.
he surrenders himself
about it.
then,
he absolves himself
of
any attendant guilt.
well,
sort
of.
but not
really.
it’s all he knows.
how very catholic
of
him.

torturous

“torture is torture,” the torturer said.
it’s not easy to make someone squeal.
you get grimy and bloody and covered with snot
which can really affect how you feel.

for example I once had george abdul bin bad
at the point where I felt he would flip
on his buddies who ran this place, Mid’Eastern Breads
the breakthrough lay right on his lip.

he gagged and he gurgled, he blubbered and wept.
not your man, not I am ’s’how he cried
and just when I thought he was ready to crack
he rolled his eyes back and he died.

I know what you’re thinking: a horrid mistake.
what a terrible thing to take place.
Relax, take a breath, chill a pill, have a smoke,
there’s twenty plus more from his race.

we’ll bring in another, he’ll look ‘bout the same
he’ll plead for his life, nothing new.
we’ll listen a bit, take some notes act real kind,
then we’ll board him and jolt his ass, too.

if he lives, that’s ok; if he dies, ok, too.
we’re not acting like God around here.
we’re just saving our freedom and our way of life
nothing gets in the way, never fear.

to finish I’ll repeat what started all this:
it’s not easy to make someone squeal.
you get grimy and bloody and covered with snot
which can really affect how you feel.

broadcast

the tv man raised a thick eyebrow then said,
"we have gut-wrenching news from the coast.
last night a lone gunman walked into a bar
and threatened all there with this boast":

“I’ve been over there; I’ve watched dozens die
“I know what it’s like to see hell
“I’ll let you all live, let you all walk away
“if just one of you’s seen it as well.”

a silence o’erlayed all around in that room
no one spoke. no one sniffed. no one dare.
til Annabelle Moon in the corner did stand.
she’d lost two of her boys over there.

with this news the talking head slivered his eyes
he softened his voice a bit, too.
while the crawler below told the middle day scores
an eye-witness reported her view.

“this lady she said ‘I don’t know what you’ve seen,
“’I would never assume what you feel,
“’but if you’ll take a moment and put down that gun
“’maybe most of the rest here can leave.’”

he did and did we, she went on with a tear,
we walked into the dark, out of view
then we stood in the silence still holding our breaths
til we heard not one gunshot, but two.

"no one knows what was said in the dusk of the pub,"
the newsman said, reading his part.
tho later ‘twas said annie’d waited for years
prayed for ease from the pain in her heart

"it’s a story of war and of tragedy’s pain,"
the reporter reported to close.
then the anchorman teased, a smile now his look,
“coming next, Mylie Cyrus’ new pose.”

next stop: somewhere else

There’s a moment
in time,
a sliver of space
‘tween what could be
and what never
will.
It’s a quick
flash
of fate,
a second of life’s
do -- or
you don’t;
you will
or
you won’t.
And the destination
suddenly
changes.

boomer

He rolled onto his side, to the outside. His head throbbed, his neck ached. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was. He blinked his eyes, tried to focus on the clock across the room. Finally did. Seven-forty, he guessed, wasn’t exactly sure. Yes. Now, 7:41. He rolled back onto his back. He was afraid to look right to see who was in bed with him. The revelations in the past, near and distant, hadn’t always been flattering to his ego, much less gild for his reputation. Before that, before he saw what – who -- was there, he needed to remember what day it was. For some reason he guessed Thursday. And, it was, he would discover in a moment or two. Thursday. He looked right. Dark hair. Freckled shoulders. That was all … and he had no idea. He needed to piss. That, first, now. He swung his legs off the bed, sat slowly, finally stood, waiting for his equilibrium to register before trying a step. Suddenly, his memory caught up. Thursday. Yes. And – holy shit! -- he was in the second foursome. He didn’t have much time. He pulled on his pants, grabbed a T-shirt, yanked on that, too, then headed toward the bathroom. A voice from the bed, raspy, whispery, said, “Good luck, today, Boomer.” He didn’t turn back. If he did, he’d have to remember her name and he didn’t have enough time for that. “Thanks,” he said. He really did have to whiz.