Down Here At the Pawnshop

There's not much left of me willing to say

I'm ready to give this heart away

There's little willing able and warm

that wasn't washed to sea by storm

There's not a helluva lot to say

That I haven't already condemned the same

Not much skin left on my back

Seems all I'm made of anymore is cracks

In shell and mind both alike

If only I hadn't given up the spike

I could have words left to describe

Worlds left to relate and decry

If only I'd kept a few pieces of me

For rainy days and boys too sweet

For loves that could keep

And not expire in the heat

I feel there's not much left of me

That hasn't rotted away with the meat

Of my shame and bones of my feet

As I've been endlessly wandering these country streets.

Ballpoint Blues

A brushstroke
feel you down
tips of my fingers
edge of your lines
into storms
excited nights
long afternoons
sunny parks
darkened bars

filled with smoke
feel you here
in every stroke.

black or blue
you have me both.

Sickly words
clear defined
crumpled worlds
softer lines
raised or leveled
deaf or blind
screamed out or
kept so quiet
hear you've spoken
though it's silent
feel your words
cruel and kind
into dark

kept in light
through this pen
reluctant and slight
I feel it all
feel all your lies.

Badfish, A Retrospective

He

only used

his index fingers,

tapping one key at a time

until his words were complete,

scrap of torn

paper sticking out like a

bandage

on the mouth of the

typewriter.

I never knew how

to speak to him

when he was writing.

I never knew

how to look at him

or even breathe.

He’d escape and

I’d be left behind

with my bare legs and

messy hair.

Wild orange and

red

curtains

the backdrop to

our nights at the 1944

Remington Quiet Riter

he bought me for Christmas.

Into the distance

beyond those autumn

bedroom windows

there was a road that

stretched for miles

and miles

along the river,

no winds

or curves or

stop signs.

Lined with

trees and houses,

no street lights to

guide your way.

He looked

through the windows

into this road

for all of its worth

and finally decided to

remember everything

that he could

about the war.

About the only war

he would ever fight

apart that which

he fought with

himself.

His stories never brought me to tears.

Never made me upset.

I never thought to myself,

God,

I wish I had never

known this about him.

I wanted more

of him, wanted more

of his words,

more of his truth.

I wanted to know how

all of those people died

that he

had killed.

I wanted to know

exactly how

he ended their lives and

how it felt

to end them.

But

he would never

tell me such things…

he would never.

And I would never know

just as I

was never to know

what it was like

to walk for hundreds

of miles

of desert

in the same pair

of socks and

army-issued boots,

just to stop

suddenly

to end someone’s life

and then

just

move on along.

I do know

that he killed a pregnant woman.

She held a gun

to another man's head and

he reacted.

He used to have dreams about her.

Nightmares.

He used to

wake up

screaming

and

smack me across the ribs,

fighting to wake up

from a reality

he would never

be able to shake.

A cold look in his eyes,

sweat on his forehead,

he growled at me

as I tried to hold him and

he tried to

shake himself free…

I opened the bedroom window and

we drank red wine

straight from the bottle and

put cigarettes out on the carpet.

Any time that

we were able to

sleep or

fuck

it was on a mattress

on the floor,

only on days we

were drinking the moment

we woke up in the morning.

By afternoon

we’d be

at the piano

in the living room,

pounding out our misery in song

until he’d get bored or

sober

and disappear for a few hours.

But he was always back by morning.

Sometimes

we’d hide

at our favorite dive bar…

him playing pool and

me at the bar,

reading a book and

drinking until I couldn’t feel

anything

anymore.

Then stumble home,

him whispering

my black beauty,

don’t let them steal your heat.

Roll onto the living room floor,

locking out his

stoned friends

tearing at each other until

our arms were weak and

we could only think

of sleep

and our small place

to hide

in the corner of my room.

He called me Clint.

I called him Clyde.

Trouble was

putting it lightly.

Mourning Dove

Bird on the wire

I can't sleep

on my feet.

Too many nights

scanning the scene

after scene.

Everything I said untrue

everything I couldn't do

for never telling you

I'm fucking weak.

Every time I made you cry

Every time I said goodbye

For saying that you and I

weren't meant to be.

And now it's like you

know so much more

for once, more than me.

Promise, I won't ever be able to sleep.

Bird on the wire

I can't think

I can't think

on my feet.

Too

Too many nights

scanning the scene

after scene.

I can't sleep

on my feet.

I'm always on my feet.

For everything I didn't say

Every time I'd go away

Til the day

Til the day

Til the day

For every time I made you cry

Every time you and I

Oh

Until the day

the day

the day

that you died.

You know now

how I'll spend my time.

Every night

on the wire.

I Didn't Want to Survive

Life may be unimaginable

without those great battles

we fight with ourselves.

The war inside fought

against our hearts and minds,

tears in our eyes, begging

forgiveness, for the love

we swear to deserve and

cherish, for that which

keeps our bodies warm and

comforted at night,

for all that has been lost

to never be found again along the way.

Life may never be the same,

may never be unquestionably good

or without pain. The car crashes

and thoughts thrown like ashes

through the windshield, the dark

and silent moment

where there's nothing left

to fight for. When there's

nothing more that could damage

anything that may remain intact.

Shattered little beings just

crashing into one another

screaming out in agony as our

lies to ourselves uncover

no skin left to shed. Little bleeding

hearts with pulpy beats on the pavement

pounding out our songs to the world

and praying to God or someone to hear and

push our trampled hearts back from

whence they came, deep in the dark

and deep within our chests. Our little selves

with sockets empty and raw from the war

so large they seem to be all we're made of.

A walking, talking, gaping hole with no

recollection of how to breathe or think

and our world crushed underfoot as we sit,

staring at our broken hearts on the floor

after being thrown back at ourselves with the

comet-tail of others' judgment. We sit

watching it beat back against the rain

trying to wash it clean. Red light pouring from

the street as cars rush past, hurrying to crash

into others and splatter their own lives

onto the street. Watching everything rush past.

Watching. And waiting

for the world to change.

Mojo Pin Live at Sin-è

He lives

less than a mile

from my house,

the house I share

with my brother

and good friend,

the only house

on the left side of the road.

He walks

to our house

in the afternoon,

except when he rides his bike,

which he

throws into the bushes

to keep people

from stealing it.

The days he walks

he wears

the same boots

and fatigues

he's worn

marching through

blood

and

sand

in Iraq.

The days he rides his bike

he wears jeans

and red chucks.

I once asked him if he had a system

down

for

what he wears each day.

He looks angry.

“What system?

This is a conspiracy!”

He shouts

snatching the plastic lighter

out of my hand

and

lighting a cigarette.

He gets high

in our music room,

banging away on the drum-kit

questioning everything

and anything.

Smoke building up

so heavy

we can barely see each other

from feet away

until

someone

cracks the door

and

it pours out

like syrup

into the

warm summer night.

I fumble

carelessly

with the four-track

Tascam

I gave him for Christmas

show him how to record

how to work the

damn thing

but his fingers

twist, winding the little

white wheel

inside the cassette

as he lights

another cigarette

shoves it into the

recorder,

giving up,

making me

unwitting

producer.

“Recognize this one?”

He smirks

thumb thudding along the bass line

to

an

Alice in Chains song.

“Of course you do, Clint.”

Falling off the kit

drunk on cheap beer

he staggers

across the room

to me,

to love, insisting

we go outside.

My brother

my roommates,

too drunk to follow

retreating

to their own rooms

to the peacefulness of sleep.

A peace that

he and I

fight perilously

for

night

after night,

but never find.

Shuffling outside

to the asphalt

to the night

he leans hard on me

so that he doesn't fall down.

We both know

he won’t make it home tonight

just like every other time

he has come over

since

the first night

he fell asleep

in my room, in my

arms.

Against my beat-up

silver

Buick

I light

two cigarettes

and

hand him one.

He motions for me

to place it

in his mouth for him.

I slip it,

delicately,

between his parted lips.

“Clint?” He whispers,

cigarette dangling

from his mouth

on a wire.

Yeah?

“Promise not to get mad

if I ask you something

about your past?”

I promise, brushing ashes

from his dark, soft hair.

“Why do you try to remember?”

I don't try, I say,

feeling all of their hands on me

crawling, slithering, dark

angry

unforgiving

I close my eyes

they are there

my Guardian Evil, the past.

I don't try to remember

Memories try me.

“I would have to really try. But I won't.”

He lies.

Promise not to get mad?

“What’s heroin like?”

He asks quietly, staring down

at his boots,

dark smoke blooming up into the sky

from both of us.

Get in the car, I say,

opening the passenger side door.

He knows better than to question me.

His body slams

into the driver’s seat

wheel in his

hands

wrapped tightly

knuckles turning white

from the tension in his arms.

I pick up the thick, black

leather case

sitting on the dash

flip through

page after page,

until I finally

find

Live at Sin-è.

The key turns

the song begins

Let go

and

close your eyes, my love.

His death grip

on the world

releases

he falls back

into the seat,

flicking a cigarette

out of the open

moon

roof.

This is what heroin

feels like, I whisper, kissing him

on the neck.

The moon runs

like milk

across his twenty two

year old

face

he closes his eyes. And

he's

completely

enveloped by the song, by

the night.

When all goes

quiet

he opens his

eyes,

looking through everything and

anything and

into the stars

his hand reaching into

my pocket

for the pack of Camels that

we share, not looking at me

as he lights one and

inhales sharply,

his back once again leaning hard

into the driver’s seat.

Clearing his throat,

he

whispers

gently

“Clint?”

Yeah?

“Don’t ever let me do it.”

(2008)

MORENDO ca: 2004