yesterday

casa la reina is
a ruin

the ceiling has
fallen
in the back room

and a large
crack stretches over
the writing desk

maybe word is
coming from heaven

pennies arent

the toilet leaks
so you want
to stand
at the door to
pee

and the only
eating
done in the kitchen
is by the ants

the neighbor knocks
at the door
wanting to sell
vitamins
or god
or cable television

i dont have a
television that
works beyond static

i dont have a
god that works
beyond static

and im suspect
about vitamins

if i close
the door
turn off the light
sit up in bed
with the covers
pulled against the
cold
maybe i can
write a line or two

and i will have
done something with
my life
today

* * *

victor fixed the
back door sagging
on its hinges

i can walk into
the stick garden
now

sit on a
rusty chair
search for the
sunlight

a heavier jacket
would have been
smart

but it seems i
can never judge how
cold i will be

i can never
judge how cold the
air will be either

i am not a good
judge of cold
even though I have
gotten the cold
shoulder
from life

i
sit in the back

a winter wasteland
where the crisp
air hurts
whats left of the
nostrils

and look at the
sun
which seems to have
given
up

this is me
getting out

i wrote a
couple lines
yesterday

i wonder if i
will today

* * *

there is no
friend
like a blanket

it will not
protect
you from a bullet
or a wine bottle
thrown at you
or even a bad
phone call

but it
buffers you from
complete intimacy
with ghosts
and loneliness

i drag
from room to room
a flowery quilt
wrapped around me
like a robe

it was once
cheery and bright but
time
with me has remedied
that disease

im such a healer

ronnie wants me
to meet
for a drink
at a tranny bar
but i havent shaven
for a week

and have only a
curse to wear

if i sidestep
the mail on the
dirty floor

maybe i can get onto
the bed
and write a poem

there
i can wear
what i want

but its only worth
reading

if i wear what
i am

* * *

jeanne bought me a
salad with crusty bread
and a
glass of wine

what a good breakfast

we walk to the
thrift store
for a light bulb

maybe we can find
something to sell too

but the store is
closed
and i havent sold
anything in months

it doesnt cost
anything to write
a poem
but power and piss

but it doesnt pay
anything
to write a poem
either

an angel may speak
to you
feed you something
fresh

but those moments
pass

and you are left
without even a bare
bulb
to hold against
the dark night

* * *

downey is not a town
you go to to
write

and if you write it
would probably be
happy
to see you go

but here i am

the house attacking
me
and protecting me
from the streets

realtors knock
at the door wanting
to sell
casa la reina
they have buyers they
say
and give me tablets
of paper with
their faces
on them

finally
a gift i can use

or so i
think

the tablets stare at
me
the faces watch
what goes on inside
here

maybe better
than i do

writing sometimes
talking sometimes
moaning sometimes
drinking
staring at the walls
wrestling with
ghosts
making toast

sometimes there is
music but music
is an escape

and there is no
escape
from downey

not as a writer
not as a ruin dweller
not as an empty
page

* * *

dorothy called to
ask if i needed
money

she didnt need
to call or
ask

i am a poet i
cant even afford
mice

there hasnt been
anything friendly in
the mail for months

and what jobs i
get take more than
they give

if i peddled
door to door poems
fluttering
from a bamboo stick i
would fare no better

people have doors
for a reason

to escape the
walls
when no one is
looking

if i had a million
dollars
i would buy
a night on the town
for you

but just to be
smart i
would first get new
shoes

and ink for the
printer

* * *

i wrote today

even a few lines
can keep the
wolf from the
whore

maybe i will type up
what it is
and look at it

i do that

look
at the poem on
the page
for longer than
anyone should

i read it and read
it

trying to understand
what
i have

luckily
it is short
and not very
deep

and luckily i
am familiar with
the subject

if my poetry were
taught
in school i
would get a
c

im kinda average
in my own
life

im even worse
in others

a b
motivates you to
do better

a c
lets you be

obviously im
zen about it

if i could get an
a
in my poetry
i would sit back
on my laurels

and twirl
the long golden
curls of my hair all
day

* * *

the house makes
noises
at 2 am
it doesnt make
at 2 pm

but so do i

the windows
are black mirrors

maybe a shadow
passes but
not the moon
not the stars

a light from the
road
hits a key on the
wall

a voice from the
back fence
says something about
responsibility
lightly as a spiders
web
but i dont listen

a glass of wine helps
with that

my knees creak
laugh at me
as i tap the pen
on the paper
trying to prime
the pimp

many nights
the house is
restless
unable to describe
itself

many nights
the moon is
absent
the voice unclear
the paper
blank

* * *

i have an appointment
tomorrow
but I wont
wear a tie

if i get some
sleep
i may be pleasant
i may be charming

but it is unlikely

i will make toast
and take a
shower
and wear something
clean
the striped shirt
maybe

the sun may
be
out

and a girl on
the street
may say hello
as she passes

but im a soda
at this
appointment
i will be drained
the fizz consumed
the glass left
empty

and tonight already
I begin to
go flat

* * *

the computer is
fucked

if this were a
movie i
would throw it
against the wall
with abandon
or out
the window
with abandon

but no matter how
it is sold

in whatever media

life is not
a movie

and i am not
handsome enough to
be a tragic star

media tragedy
only happens with
beautiful people

the rest of us must
suffer
without the benefit
of hair and makeup
and wardrobe

a typewriter
has so little
to go wrong and
so much
to write

i have so much
to go
wrong
and so little to
write

but i
am here and
i am right

a typewriter is
not

and the computer is
fucked

* * *

i have four
pens next to the
computer
and none of them
writes

they are like
me

one says
milestone mortgage

it should read
millstone

one has dorothys
name
and the lakota
indian reservation

i must have stolen
them all

useless is
as useless does

even when i want
to write
even
when i can

the fickle finger
of fate
flips me off

yanks the plug

infects the computer
with a virus
a bacteria
without a trojan
on its horse

i am like the pens
not able to make
a mark

i am like the
computer
needing penicillin

i am like the dog
walking on a
leash

not the master
not in control

looking forward to
scratching
in my bed

* * *

one side of the
sofa is beaten to
hell

i leave a
poem
about a key
written out by hand
on the other side

to wait
for millie

she has to pick
it up or
risk a spring in the
ass

what i will do
to get
read

millie will come
in the evening
to talk about
writing

but i will have a nap
before then

maybe more maybe
less

and splash
some water on my
face

to appear
presentable

the day is warmer
so i can open
a door
a window
and the house will
smell less
of mildew

i have half
a bottle of wine
to offer

and the poem

and she will be
intoxicated

* * *

casa la reina
is a ruin

even the crickets
have abandoned

but the sun
is out
and the stick
garden has sprouted
some green

the traffic sounds
the arguments
the construction
sounds
the miscellaneous
noises
of life

are somehow
muffled

and i sit in the
back
with leftover bites
of a tuna sandwich

and watch the
sky