nobody here but us chickens

The chickens in the parking lot

pick through last night's crumbs.

The maintenance man in the maintenance van,

full of mops and rags, stops for his 6:00 am coffee

at the 24-hour fast food joint at the parking lot exit.

The girl with the tattooed tear working the counter

gives him a weary smile, two quarters and a dime.

A one-legged man in long black coat, standing outside the door,

leans on his crutch smoking a beggared benson & hedges.

He scratches at the scab that peeks through a hole

in the finger of his woolen mitten.

The man from the van gives the one-legged man

the dime and the quarters. Says see you tomorrow.

The chickens finish the last of the crumbs and hop

from the pavement into the raggedy ivy-filled

parking lot median island.

The counter girl, now through with her shift, heads

out the door with two white paper bags, gives one

to the black-coated man and climbs into her Civic.

The starter moans for a moment and dies,

she sighs, -shit not again, and leans her head

on the wheel pressing the horn which emits

a slow feeble squawk which scatters the chickens.

The man in the maintenance van pulls up along side,

rolls down the window and says, need a jump?

Yeah thanks, if it's not too much trouble.

No problem, it'll just take a sec, go ahead and pop

the hood while I get the cables.

The Civic briefly complains then catches and growls

through the huge muffler her ex had installed to be cool.

All set? You might need a new battery or it could be

something else, I could check it tomorrow if you want,

I'll bring my tester and tools.

You sure? I'll treat you. Anything on the menu you want.

That's a deal. See you tomorrow, drive careful, you hear?

The man in the van follows her Civic to the stoplight

where she makes a left and he makes a right.

The chickens watch them leave and go back

to their scratching. The one-legged man makes

a new sign for the day on a scrap of cardboard:

Nobody here but us chickens

-and I could use some scratch.

when the saints

She has Saint Sebastian's face

painted on the nail of her finger

illustrating the absence of a ring.

Did he never notice?

She taps distractedly on the

inverted wineglass resting

beside a plate where random

artisanal crumbs float in a pool

of pale green extra virgin oil.

He'd claimed that some degree

of aloneness was required

or we'd all be glued together.

Like the stray dogs we saw

in Cuernavaca? she had joked.

Yeah. because then you'd be

my bitch and you'd hate that

-except in bed, he'd leered.

Then he tried to prove it

on the floor of their hotel room.

And that was fine, sex was not

the problem. Sitting at this

restaurant for almost an hour

using a wine glass as a war drum

was the problem.

He could take his bullshit aphorisms

and shove 'em up his smug little…

….asshole, and suddenly as if

conjured by her frustration,

there he was out on the sidewalk,

his face framed by the "O"

in the window sign, his hands

pressed against the glass

like a thief busted on the street.

Grinning like the wolf who ate

Little Red Ridinghood's grandma.

He'd better have a real good story

or she would treat him to the arrows

that pierced the body of the saint

painted on her fingernail, not

the ones loosed by that chubby

flying baby emblazoned on a million

corny Valentine's Day cards.

He comes in with his sailor's

rolling walk, hands stuffed

in his pockets. hey Babe.

She snorts and shakes her wrist,

peers at the dial of her watch,
frowning as if surely it must be broken.

This is August isn't it?

We've been on Daylight Savings Time

for months, haven't we? Or do you

have some brilliant observation

on the arbitrariness of clocks?

uhmm, how about time flies

when you're having fun?

Do I look like I'm having fun?

No, not yet. But I'm here now,

so let's start having some.

What do you want to drink?

A double shot of drain cleaner.

Heyyy, come on now, I'm sorry.

I was working on a post for tomorrow

and I lost track of time. It's really going

to be a good one, Hit 'em where it hurts.

Yeah, you're pretty good at that,

a real virtuoso when it comes to

hitting where it hurts.

Ouch. I said I was sorry,

what do you want?

This is really important.

Oh of course it is, I know

how much democracy and

human rights are depending

on your blog. If you were to

show up here less than an hour late,

the casualties would be uncountable.

That's not fair. What should I do,

drop everything so that I can

get down here and suck down

chardonnay with you?

You know what? I'll tell you

what you can suck. Why don't you

get the fuck out of here and back

to your precious blog, the fate

of millions is depending on you.

Ok, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Get yourself a drink or two. Maybe

then you'll chill out. You know where

to find me, I'll be there all night

so when you get down off your

high horse, why don't you come

over and show me how creative

you can get making it up to me.

The promised arrows shot from her eyes,

he never saw them coming as they 

pierced his chest pinning him to the

reproduction mid-century modern chair

and she walked out into the rosy glow

of sunset on the twin spires

of Saints Peter and Paul's Cathedral.

paper from the sky

A tattered clipping,

band-aid sized,

inscribed:

this is your last warning,

stop hanging curtains

with your girlfriend.

Emergency procedures

and pilgrimages

are required.

The beasts are flying,

eager to drop their eggs,

and it's not Easter yet.

There will be no

resurrection,

but rest assured,

plenty of lambs

will be roasted

over the fiery pit,

until the snakes crawl out

from their burrows

and stop spitting flame.

Because after all,

they're the ones to blame,

aren't they?

molecules in motion

v.i. lenin said

reality consists

of molecules in motion.

i felt them all in thailand

- the diesel fumes and heat

beside a bus stalled in traffic,

the swarming scooters

threading through the jam.

listened to mynah birds
calling from the ruins
of ancient temples

where golden sashes

draped across the chests

of headless buddhas

rippled in the breeze,

warm and moist

as a tiger's breath.

heard the rain beating on
the corrugated roofs

of shanties crowded

up against the railroad tracks,

saw a fat monitor lizard

foraging on the slimy rocks

beside a black canal.

the refrigerated chill

in the 7,651 7-Elevens

(half of them in Bangkok)

swiftly changes sweat into

a clammy film.

the smell of meat chunks

threaded on a stick,

sizzling over charcoal grills

lined up on the sidewalks,

and the sweet scent

of plumeria when

the sun goes down.

black mold spreads its stain

millimeter by millimeter

on the scraps of sandstone

that survived the sack

of Ayutthaya by the Burmese

two hundred fifty years ago

now tourists hire elephant rides

along the paths around the ruins.

i saw a dozen kinds of butterflies

in the misty forest sixty miles

from the tourists in Chiang Mai
wearing their allegiance
to their favorite beers
on their shirts.

i saw a dead red dragonfly

lying on the station tiles

while we waited for

the overnight train to Bangkok

and sucked down icy tea

to the rattling cubes,

watched the sweaty trekkers

headed for the rasta bars in Pai.

in the morning Post

i watched an ant crawl across

the page three body counts

and blood streaked hospital floors,

twisted metal in a field of sunflowers

crouching on page four.

the Chao Phraya, river of kings

flows back and forth with the tides

carrying dinner cruise boats

the size of small destroyers,

chains of sand barges, long-tail boats,

floating coconuts, water weeds,

and empty plastic pepsi bottles.

under the Krung Thon bridge

a grimy ribbon and a wilted string

of jasmine are tied to the electrical conduit

that feeds a bare fluorescent tube.

someone has left a tiny glass

of fruit juice, complete with a straw

and a boiled fishball
speared with a toothpick
on a paper plate.

offerings to a reality

beyond the comprehension

of V.I. Lenin, that John,

would surely understand.