Sing me a story, won’t you?
With a melody sweet and plaintive.
Sing to me about the time
you loved so deeply, true and simply.
Before the busy
complications of life
turned your chords into regrets
and your voice into
a hoarse and bitter growl.
Sing me that story
that I know you still remember.
Sometimes, what we deem “fate”
is just foolishness.
She walked in off the street asking
if they were hiring.
And, coincidentally, they were.
She had a good resume, credentials
and, more importantly, she exuded
warmth with an earnest smile.
Just perfect for the front desk person.
No one bothered to do background check
or to call her references.
If they had, they might have gotten some
inkling into the kind of damage
she was capable of inflicting.
And maybe, just maybe they could have
saved themselves some pain.
Was a badass guitar player.
Like the huntress,
only her Strat was her bow.
And her solos were the arrows
she shot into the night.
When they gigged at the Bowl,
all the wild children went crazy.
She channeled that
into a blistering lead
that floored it off the bandstand.
The moon shone brightly.
“Hey batter, no batter, hey batter, you can’t hit.”
Bat, listen to me. I need you now.
Come here, I kiss you.
Swing and a miss.
I bite you!
Just make contact, that’s all.
Foul ball right field line.
with sugar on top.
I lick you.
One base hit, It’s all I ask.
Some of the best criminals
don’t choose it as a career path.
They don’t wake up one morning and say,
“Yeah, I want a life of crime.”
They gradually fall into it one little compromise
and action followed by another until
they’re in too deep.
WB’s Max Ernst sold for five million
and it fooled even the most
discerning collectors and dealers.
It was the dirt he put in the painting
that he collected from an attic in Barcelona.
God works in mysterious ways.
Rashes, sores and pestilence.
How people love to make him responsible
for all manner of random.
Then search for the meaning why.
Was it retribution or reward?
A death in the family,
the whole block burned but their house was spared.
The tree was struck by lightning and the sap exploded
sending shrapnel towards the house.
In the window was their coat of arms
it took a direct hit and smashed to pieces.
They’re cursed now for a whole generation.
Red ball, line of freight cars
big as a football field.
Standing on the platform,
smoking a cheap cigar.
Thinking about the next stop,
forgetting all the last stops.
No home to settle down,
No savings to fall back on.
There’s no 401Ks for drifters.
History doesn’t care for those who ride the Cadillac grainer.
“You know how old the office is.
She came for a treatment and had a visitation.”
“It was a woman though.”
“Everyone who works there knows Fred.
He’s a spirit that everyone has seen.”
“No one has ever seen a woman before.”
“Apparently, she had some kind of cough.
Hacked and hacked like a smoker.”
“Fred would never smoke. He’s a dancer.
We’ve seen him Tango, I kid you not.”
Lovro had a ritual.
Laid the herbs meticulously on parchment paper,
weighed out each ingredient
and created perfectly arranged packages.
The process was meditative and it calmed his nerves.
Once assembled, he carefully folded each parcel
into a neat package and put them gingerly
into a brown paper bag.
Wrote the patent’s name
on the bag in meticulous print.
Now if he could only spend his life doing this,
everything would be alright.
At the laundromat.
And the knuckleschmucks are doing bong hits in the back.
Like, straight up blowing smoke all over the planet.
And Eve just wants to do her laundry.
Who are these anarchist people?
Ok, it’s California, but do we all have to
breathe weed smoke all day long?
Some of us like oxygen.