RYAN ANARCHY

In this alley
the black sun burns
another hole in the fair skin
of the girl on the mattress.

She was such a peach
caught in the brown rot
on the dead blooms
of the pitted city.
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I woke up one morning
and It came out of me.
Thousands of word combinations,
oozing out.
All that had been lost or buried,
weeping down,
all over the page in front of me.
And when It dried
It forced me to see It.
And when I saw It
I couldn't read It.
I left the room nauseous
and got sick in the kitchen.
And told myself,
"I will never write again."
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So many monsters
in the city of therapies,
where millions are managing
to get out of the funk, tonight.
One guy just picked up his first self-help book at the age of forty,
while his daughter talks herself out of a panic attack at Costco.
The Spanish kid next door is learning to play the blues,
while his mentor sits and listens,
remembering a time when his own jams sent chills down his spine.
Young people everywhere are deleting their social media tonight,
while some are planning another healthy-looking hiking trip with healthy-looking friends, with the pictures posted to Instagram, obviously.
Some are “talking it out.”
Some are “taking it in.”
Some are taking up karate or kickboxing to “take it out” on a bag or a mat.
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A fist fight.
A gun shot.
Pieces of people.

A sign in the window
of the 411 West Motel reads,
"I saw that."
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After months of homelessness
it was not my face that I saw
but a reflection of my face
and it was shown to me by others.

In a world without mirrors,
and inventions by others
I would not know what I look like.
And neither would you.
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But who will I play slug bug with
now that you’re gone?
Who can I confide in
the way I could confide in you?
Ever since we were kids,
your little hand in mine.
You were right there with me
for every milestone in my life.
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. . . and then something changed.
Some thing that changed every thing.
Predawn on triple spell night
a fire set in his eye
his body slanted to the old curve of the new moon
and he turned
like the face of an animal in a cage.
Along the unheard waves of the world
back and forth with the wild horses
up and down like man's stock markets
and women's fertility cycles
he became one with the Rhythm.
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A storm ended the wildfires;
a forgiving winter, indeed.
Our coats and hats hang together
like invisible house guests.
A 21 lb. turkey for four people?
Italians.
It was so big
we had to store the carcass in a trash bag
to make the soup the next morning.
And we did.
We cooked all weekend together
like Old Philadelphia.
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I left Tahoe blue.
Stupid self talk and
interstate love songs.
I remember begging the question of “why?”
Why did I do it?
Why did I drink myself under?
I whispered back,
"it’s because of a woman."
It’s always because of a woman.
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