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.

adam and imogene go to vegas

adam and imogene cheever

sported matching tropical shirts

as they strolled down the strip

from the palazzo to the mirage.

imogene's sister had insisted

that the buffet at bellagio

was not to be missed. and adam

was especially fond of prime rib.

then he hit the tables at harrah's

while imogene stuck to bingo –

she's practiced for years

tuesday nights at the VFW hall.

the following day, well rested,

they dressed in their finest,

with tickets for wayne newton's

golden circle at the flamingo,

pre-show meet-and-greet photo

with mr las vegas included.

on wednesday they flew back

to ohio, with memories they'd

treasure forever, and an 8 x10

semigloss of wayne planting

a kiss on imogene's cheek

as she clutched a bouquet

of red roses to her best

sunday blue dress. her sister

irene, was duly impressed

and adam swore he wasn't

the least bit jealous.

after all, it's just part of the

'games that lovers play'

he said with a chuckle.

the dry months

it was so hot that day

in the canyon that

the fallen bay leaves

smelled like they

were already burning.

the creek had withered

to a disconnected

string of pools.

a solitary juvenile

steelhead trout

circled helplessly,

trapped since april,

waiting for autumn rain,

if it should ever fall again.