industry

the english sparrows

tweet in dusty trees,  

flit to pick at scraps

of a discarded

enchilada

on the slick

red-painted bricks

of ensenada.

but after all

he spoke english.

he had blue eyes,

and a braided beard

establishing his street cred,

150K per annum, and

twenty feet of vintage vinyl.

cold pressed virgin oil

from a $50 lunch lingered

on his fingers as he

cold pressed ten million lives

between two forty five

and three o'clock on friday.

he discussed this weeks

wars and clicks while sipping

a cappuccino fetched by

his pink-haired office chick,

speculated on her talents

with her tongue stud.

maybe he could wrestle a demo

in the back seat of his tesla.

he'd promised that he'd test her

claim that she could code

like a psychedelic demon

data mining the motherfucking lode.

heart:

she said she remembers

they were living in a grain elevator

somewhere up the road

from muleshoe, texas

in the panhandle.

the ones who'd gone before

them said there was work

and land out in california

so they piled their possessions

in a buick some doctor out in LA

needed to be delivered.

they took up a tenant farm

on some scabby acres,

a hill out by ivanhoe,

her father scraped the money

together for a couple of

draft horses and plowed

the rocky soil.

one day,

when she was five,

standing beside

the sunscorched road

her sister said let's 

walk out in front

of that car

speeding up the road.

she was joking, but mom

thought it was a serious

suggestion and she was

caught on the bumper of

a buick skidding from

sixty miles per hour,

dragged along the asphalt.

left a nine scar on her thigh

that she showed us with the story.

when i was five

and we had moved up to modesto

she pulled me out of baptist sunday school.

i always thought it was because

we were now beyond the influence

of her father, the WWI doughboy

farmer baptist sunday school teacher.

but that was not the reason:

she told me a few years ago

that i had told my teacher

that i wanted to know about the devil

and she had not answered. if the church

would not answer the questions

of a five year old, she saw no reason

for me to keep going.

her heart is weak now,

she gets exhausted by

rearranging her pillows

or walking across the room

and yet she says to me, laughing

don't buy me any green bananas.

richard and sarah are masters of metal

they fill the cavernous

trunk of their trusty

imperial each day

with aluminum cans

fished from trash bins

with salad tongs

and magic fingers.

about six o'clock

in the parking lot

of their H street flat,

they pour a collection

of coke and coors,

lipton's, mountain dew

and squirt cans,

on the pavement.

richard weighs

three hundred pounds,

sarah tops two fifty.

so as they step gently

on the aluminum carpet

they never need to stomp,

the booty collapses

with a delicate crunch.

twenty minutes later

the compacted cans

collected in thirty gallon

hefty bags, go back

in the imperial trunk

and they retire to their

his and hers couches

with a six pack of tab,

the national enquirer,

and two buckets of the

colonel's extra crispy.

the bridge

it was a sour milk sky at midnight

and i could not confirm my identity

when the drab men spoke in angry

dog voices: are you a mockingbird?

that coat looks like something

from the other side of the wall.

those are not our words or alphabet,

we don't trust your eyes any more

than your hat or shoes, anyway.

this bridge is for crossing not for

birds with paint on their hands

and zippos in their pockets.

the seeds in your hair betray you

for the alien you are, impostor. go.

the redlands

it's a blue oak savanna frying pan

under the skirts of lassen and

her sister, shasta.

the red lands where the rattlesnake

and the ground squirrel battle

to determine if her progeny

will be the snake's meal

or the squirrel's successors.

she fends off the snake

chases it from her burrow

onto highway 36.

in the midnight moonglare

chester has his headlights off

too buzzed on the longneck buds

he drained at the roadhouse

and fortified with some epic crank,

he barely feels the bump

his left front wheel makes

as it hits the snake

or the right front when

it intercepts the pursuing squirrel.

he stops in the middle of the road,

backs up to investigate,

an idea hatching,

having rundown rattlers

on many a night before.

chester pokes the snake

with his boot then picks it up

by the tail and stows it

on the floor of his truck

amidst the empty jerky bags

mini ketchup packets

and an orphaned sock.

two miles down the road

he turns onto a gravel drive,

shuts off the motor and coasts

into the yard behind the doublewide

where his ex, terri's, beater pontiac

sunbird is parked beside his asshole

stepbrother's broken ski boat.

chester hooks the dead snake

off the floor with a tire iron

and creeps up to the

screen door of the trailer. 

he hears his brother moaning

yeah baby, yeah baby,

do it. just like that,

chester gently eases

the screen door open

and puts the snake on the floor.

the effect will be much better

if he arranges it in a striking pose

so he reaches in and begins

to set up his little surprise.

the rattler has one spark of life

left in her or perhaps some kind

of vengeful spirit beyond the mortal coil.

just as chester places her head

in position, with one last spasm

she sinks her fangs deep into

his throat and sends a flood

of venom into his veins.

at the same moment, his stepbrother's

violent orgasm releases the blood clot

that has been lurking in his neck

and a massive stroke fells him

from the lazy boy recliner onto

the floor, where his last sight

is an empty cheetos bag, two pennies

and an expired discover card.

terri squirms out from under him

and sees chester twitching on the dirt

outside the door, a dead rattlesnake

clutched in one hand and his eyes

darting from side to side. chester

sees terri staring at him, naked

on her hands and knees in the

doorway of the trailer and he can no

longer hear what she is saying

but it's clear enough what's

on her lips before she spits

and he stops seeing anything.

he saw her today at the reception

billie didn't have

an invitation, so

he tagged onto the tails

of the upper broadway couple

just in front of him.

as if he was part

of their ever present

entourage. he wore

a rented tux and

a red carpet smile,

snagged a flute of dom

from a server gliding by

who flicked a knowing

glance at him

with a practiced eye.

he feigned a cool casualness

as he slipped between

the chatting guests

to stand beneath

the branches of the

potted ficus that flanked

the sweeping staircase.

from which, she,

would soon descend.

he licked his teeth

and sipped his champagne

savoring the moment when

she would see him

as he stepped out from

the shelter of the tree.

every eye would be trained

upon her entrance.

would she disguise

her recognition, deny

the fervid hours they spent

in the back rooms

of the museum reenacting

certain carefully selected

scenes painted by lautrec?

she arrives, in her diaphanous

gown, a glass insect gazing

down at the empty suits

waiting to devour her

like parisian chocolates with

their hungry stares.

down by the river in old town friday night

the bronze rider whips a bronze horse,

but they never gallop across the river.

they pose, frozen for the smiths, the lees,

garcias, and johnsons taking selfies.

the sinking western sun gleams

where ten thousand hands

have caressed their flanks

and gear. the rider and horse

stare unblinking at our blazing star

as night falls and the river breezes

stir the candy wrappers and flyers

for the latest tribute band playing at

the old west saloon down the street.

a feral cat stalks a boot

in the basement pit

where the riverview hotel stood

before it burned down in forty seven.

black walnut sapling volunteers

sprouting in the brick piles

screen her kittens from

the friday night bar hoppers.

every afternoon, janice fills

a swanson's pieplate

with fish-flavored kibble

and leaves it in the rubble.

it's all gone by dawn when

the cat snoozes and suckles

her kittens in her bed inside

a crumpled laura scudder's

potato chip box and

the morning dew glistens

on the rider and the horse.