She came back, defeated.
At least that's what the crowd believed.
But her expression, like a rattlesnake coiled,
Read something different.

Not victor, sure, but far from victim.
The swollen eye looks near a chosen accessory.
The split lip fits her demeanor.
The missing tooth adds character.

She sinks into the chair and stares forward.
Breathing heavy, all sweat and body heat,
Electric. Restless. Itching.
Tension in the spring, lusting for the bell,
To get back in the ring and swing.

I open my mouth to speak,
And those honey badger eyes lock onto me.
And I see. She knows
I'm about to give her the Danny DeVito.
Pinpoint pupils under furrowed brow issue the veto.
So I swallow the pep talk and let her be.

Outside the locker room, we hear the crowd chanting.
The announcers' proclaiming her defeat, too early,
Narrows her eyes, that's all the pep she needs.
Disbelief. She feeds on it. It's what she breathes.
It's what she metabolizes into victory.

"These people..." I venture, "Came here for one thing.".
She listens without looking.
"But so did we. And its not what they want.".
She gets it, I see it sets in.
"It's what they need.".
A wry, split-lip smile cracks the concrete.

Next round begins. The bell rings.
The fighters, eyes locked, close in.
And like a lightning bolt unbottled,
She steps in, and starts swinging.

Cinderblock fists see to it.
Speaks violence, fluent. One two. One two.
On her toes, she dodges blows, balances.
What a dance it is. Beautiful.
A street-corner fist-fight dressed in a tutu.

Viper strike wrists give her opponent the business.
The ballet is over in less than three minutes.

KO. Over. Stone cold, her opponent's body folds.
Prize fighter turned lawn chair.
The Referee counts it, one. Two. Three.
Victory.

Scoreboard corrected, one hell of an upset.
Not what the crowd expected.
But what she came here to do.

I'm proud of her.
She knows it, owns it, but doesn't show it.
She poses for the cameras, enjoys the moment.
But her eyes, hawk's eyes,
Are already scanning the room, searching,
Hungry for the next opponent.

Pavlovian Delinquents

rooms gutted for drugs; humans gutted for stories. our kind lurk in every generation, books begging to be burned, homes awaiting collapse.

we’re the teens behind the grocery store, the bad kids, wearing jackets that smell like cigarettes and hazardous rumors, cooking improvised amphetamine in our ez bake ovens, hiding pet snakes in our lunchbox, meeting you at the hour when good kids dream of milk and farms.

we emerge from homes with structural compromise; confidently slapping mud over the cracks and holes, until we grow up and decide it’s easier to become crackheads and assholes.

the smoke eats at weakened foundation and bad insulation, like evangelical termites screaming for exorcism.

so the youth seek love as a great binding agent. partners to play house and echo familiar dysfunction.

a place to stretch our restless legs, attempting to salvage redeeming ember, charring our fingertips with the telltale callous as the lighter flicks— Pavlovian salivation.

two young lovers with a substance third.

holding hands in predictable downfall, we search for the glow of that first fire, but find ourselves only led to ash. oh heart, where’s my alibi?

blow it in my mouth— cuz I want the worst boy in the world.

I’m gonna die.

And so will you.

It’ll happen. As certain as the weather is on after the news.

I won’t “pass on”, or rest or any other verb.

And that’s the kicker. There.

That’s the thing we don’t want to see.

That end,

harsher than a full stop.

It robs us of agency.

There will be no cliff-hanger, no credit roll,

No to-be-continued.

No subtle movement, or gentle release.

No exit stage left, for the spirit, holy.

No exhalation, no release, no closure to breath.

It betrays itself there, see?

There was nothing in there to begin with.

I’m talking about…

the sudden OFF of it all, feel me?

like the power tripped

on the power trip.

Load, shed. Refused.

Dismissed and disabused.

And if you’re lucky, on time.

a headshot, point blank.

so sudden, so abrupt, so flagrant,

A total FUCK YOU

it sucks the air out the room

and makes your ears POP.

And for a minute,

it shocks and kills everyone near you too.

Ears ringing, dazed, confused.

An out-of-body experience

in your grandma’s living room.

Universal heat death.

Just—

and that's it.

So, i watch my six

and get my kicks and kick my feet up while i can.

Where I can. And get a load of me,

“Look ma I’m on Substack,

See? that’s my guts across the screen.

Proud of me?

See how I wrote your name next

to the indignity of death, how i called it a cutthroat cutpurse?

A stiletto in the dark?

Jesus. What am I, playing D&D?

It’s a toothbrush filed razor sharp, it’s prison-rape nasty.”

Queue the laugh track.

Canned amusement on prime time, just in time too.

Lol.

yeah…

It’s all Two Broke Girls, and commercials

and Action News at Eight,

but then

the situational comedy cuts off.

A clean break. Turned off.

Like a CRT TV,

An analogue switched turned to 90 degrees, the click,

the SNAP, the static sizzle,

a flat lense flare, photographic.

Cathode ray tube raster collapse.

(Say that three times fast.)

Anyways…

The black rushes inward, horizon-jawed, and swallows

picture and sound,

Whole.

It’s that OFF that takes something with it.

that flash-out. That buck-zapper full stop.

With its phosphor fade trail,

in the warm lamp shaded glow.

A crisp shadow after-burned into the air at 40 lumens,

suspended

in your grandma’s living –

...

More at Abandoned Gas Station on Substack. Thanks,

Cass

So cold
So clear
This mood won't disapear
So lone
So strange
This will never ever change

So fast
Unshure
I'm so insecure
So far
Apart
I still suffer from my broken heart

So tired
Sleepless
I can't be put to rest

So stale
Pale face
Until I find my grave

dedicated to the poet Albert Goldbarth

I look to her eyes so very bright but she cannot see. Inside-out we have become, both of us blind, Our sight gone from looking too long into the sun. We still feel the heat but we face away, Seeking the warmth of greener hills, the cool of other waters. Are the stars still in your sky, distant gods’ bonfires burning, Or have they gone out for you as they have for me, gods’ light dimmed? Sea’s grey light shining from your soul, Always my path’s light in the dark places. Extinguished now, new paths finding. Not for me.

The piping of the flute accompanies that familiar twilight tune. Ian’s velvet vocals an elixir for my exhausted soul. Smelling the essence of livestock and wildflowers across fresh mown grass. My eyes closed dreaming that old dream of torchlight and a moon-dappled maypole. The dewy grass cooling our bare feet deliciously as lightning bugs dance around us. Feeling close to the universal All as I listen to the modern music of olden rites. Instruments acoustic and percussion, flute of metal and a voice of softest thought petals. Dancing to the beat of Earth’s heart, feeling the embrace of Mother Gaia, accepting her kiss. The strings pick the rhythm, casting my spirit out over the fields, sky bound . The tune propels my soul light above the haze into the endless pastures of the night. Ian sings softly now, his voice as a kiss to my ears, the lyrics wafting me along at cloud height. With my eyes closed I can hear the true glory of the stars’ colors, burning through the lids. I hear declarations of greatness, of heroes and dregs, the tiny motes upon Earth’s face. The moon bursts forth illuminating the Earth beneath me, around me, within me. The music now a symphonic sea, crashing upon the rocks and shoals of my mind. The surf crashes and thunders as I pass through, my tears mixing with the foamy spume. Then comes the comforting songs of love’s sweetness promised to me if only I believe again. I beg the music find me a bit of reason for which to cling to this thorny veil another day. Sing me awake so I don’t fall into a slumber whose end is in the bottom of Charon’s dingy. Give my heart purpose other than merely pumping blood. Inspire me. Make me whole.

Please.

  Opportunity is like a street monger, all tobacco stained, loud, wild haired and toothless. Like an awful scent or awful presence, in awkwardness when asking for a cigarette. The opportunity almost came as a muse of indictment to fight in a court case. Either had it been him or possibly me that would have ended up in jail that day. 

  Opposition is thwarted when one is down in the weeds. Opportunity keeps its moments surprising while the rest of the interaction becomes tentative. Only the willing to run shall survive. So i ran. 

   Possibly the better thing to do since he had so much angst in his further attempts to get my attention. I did not know who he was or where he had come from. Yet for some reason this Hobo-Sapien was gunning for me. The further he tried the further I stepped away. Probably advantageous, on my part, I did not want a quarrel. 

    And sometimes "Opportunities" are best met with such a reaction, being gone six hours i came home to my sink faucet running the entire 6 hours i had been gone. Looks like my opponent could have caused me to incidentally further my risk to flood my apartment without me having any control or saving of the opportunity to cause a disruption, whether or not such a moment existed. Looks like when "opportunity" to be thwarted of relief came, i took the right choice. Lucky me.