stress/fractures

"If it ain't broke, don't
fix it,"

they say.
'Cuz broke hurts. Like
a bag of bones tossed
over the front of a Huffy, or misplaced skin left
on pavement as payment for speed,
a dismissed
heart, or bank
statements.

"Money can't buy happiness,"

is true, but
like a child denied hugs the lack
can sure fuck things up.

"I would rather be happy
and poor, than miserable and rich."

But
I'd be happy
to give happy and rich a try.

"You can't take it with you,"

but
you also can't re-eat a perfect steak,
or re-kiss a first kiss,
or re-see your first sunset.
Sometimes I want a little right now
in my life.

Not very Zen
Buddah, with
his jolly elf face and great
golden belly.  That richness
comes from breath and perspective, but

somedays
I don't want to study for the test, or
back down from the anger flecked spittle
in my face,
or R-E-L-A-X. Thanks
anyway Mr. Rogers.

When the kitchen light flickers, and
the goddamned roaches are at it, and
my back acts like an asshole, and
the isolation grows into a black cape covering the horizon,

I don't want
my higher self.  I just want
ease.  To have the load lifted high.
Let Atlas shoulder the world.

And yet, maybe
despite my desire to spite myself,
I look around.

At love,
at children, at another broken pair of glasses
that will have to be fixed or replaced,
and I'll be repaid with a huge hug and
a thank you more sincere than I could muster
for a winning lottery ticket.

At thousands of little joys around me
like ants that I battle on the reg
because my youngest eats Pop-Tarts like a wood chipper
and spreads the crumbs like he's Johnny fucking Appleseed!!
And he smiles like he invented the smile.

I love my life.

Because no matter what they say, broke
isn't destroyed.  And if you're lucky,
broke can be repurposed into something

beautiful

Good Fences

"What's with all the noise?"
No

"Hi, my name is ... "
or "Howdy
neighbor." Just rude,

invective tommy gunning
out of a trembling Parkinson's
mouth as youthful
rage gets watered down
through a cataract glare.
Sorry

the wife with wrap
around shades and West Hollywood
bitchiness sucked
the life out, leaving
a desiccated gourd
where

a man should stand. But

old and dying doesn't bequeath carte blanche
to be
an asshole.

Yeah, About That... (poem)

You say
you hate drama,
but you create it.
Purvey it,

enflame it, and survey
your small entertainments.
Your tongue, slimy
and foul as the bullshit you eat up
daily to distract

from the hell you create.

Burying pain,
compassion, understanding, fear
with judgement and whiskey.
Your eyes permanently blurred
so

you cannot recognize
your image
mirrored.