The Dream Catcher

Asphalt turns to ocean

And suddenly I’m Jesus

Convincing her disciples

I am savior.

I walk.

An orange glittering globe

dances

in front of me

but remains

out of reach.

I reach a river,

Stop for a moment to size it up

Then remember

I am the chosen one

And walk across.

Menco and pan flute
dance the tango
in the background
as the chipped white
minivan slides up
to partner curbside.

“Last stop!” Bellows
the conductor as
Lady snowflake steps
out of her steel chariot.

She slips,
her silhouette,
against the fire
of summer sunset,
whirling groundward
like a ballerina
to the final pose-

only no encore,
no crowd of giddy
onlookers to bless
the beauty for her
body and her youth.

No, only the birds
and the tourists
to witness this display
of humanity
in the glory
of it’s winter.
“Please let me
help you up,” I utter.

“No.
Thank you sweety”
Says Snowflake,
Ascending ,
with the strength
of porcelain wrists
scraped and eaten
by the gravel,

her silhouette,
against the fire
of summer sunset,
like the phoenix,
rising once more
from the ashes.

I lay here

as a puddle,

praying that the chemicals

in my stomach

and in my ass

are able to seek

and destroy

this cantankerous

pain in my frontal lobe

and the burning inferno

in my pelvis,

put there

by the satyr,

who seduced

my lustful human

soul to the

heat of a

luxurious bed

of bacteria

from my rectum

to my urethra,

giving me

a kidney infection.

The following is just a collection of observations I made one day on a trip to Henry’s Farmers Market off Rosecranz.

The Mother

Eye contact

A slight smile

I look down.

Don’t come near me

Pink bleached hair,

Bulging stomach,

Bulging legs and

Psychedelic rainbow colored polyester top.

Don’t come near me

Black high top sneakers,

Black diet Pepsi,

Black backpack and

Styrofoam cup.

Don’t come near me

Cardboard sign:

Pregnant

Stranded

Anything helps.

————————————————————————

The People of the Crossing

One man sits

on a wheel chair

and propels himself

backwards

with his legs.

One man picks up

a straw and chews

on it for a while.

One woman crosses

the street in an

oversized gray blue

hoodie,

her brunet ponytail

limply flapping

behind her,

her cigarette flicking

ash as she bobs

across the street

on emaciated legs.

These are the people of the crossing.