Happy Halloween.
Thank you for reading 
Ride
Between us three hours
Flying so at five thirty I ride
Share. No I don’t really
Want to share so I
Lyft there. My town
dark & lonely
Avenues go on in each
direction beyond me
the driver has Has
Congratulations on
The radio.
At the airport all terminals
are closed. We stand in line
together some have pillows. you
stand around—you start to pick
Angelenos out of the crowd. Over
dressed, chest forward. Phone out
But at least we are
together. I start thinking about
predestination. More planes
that explode in the air
do it with open seats. Full
planes take off somewhere
and land. Just
think of it: all of us
together. & yet
Transported.
Injured
I can tell from
the times I catch
myself laughing
Or shouting
Sitting with ease in
renewed congress
with family—or
trusted friends
that I have been
asleep in the
coat pocket of
dark waters. I try
and remember
thier faces. Their
creasing eyes or
elevated inflections.
I hold them fondly
like origami of
goodbyes & fare
well.
Just in case.
Catch
In Memory of the Dodgers Baseball Club
At the Roadhouse
your tramp’s beard
could not betray your
rabbit teeth, azure
eyes, dirty
Dodgers gear.
Orel Hershiser.
You warn me don’t
try to attain success
too soon. Wait till I’m
older. That it ruined you.
Now you ride the rails
between underground
homeless cities connected
by thousands of miles of
tunnellage.
I’m not even interested, I
don’t judge or get
sanctimonious. All I want to
know is: can you still
get that arm to throw?
We use your bronzen,
greased signed baseball
from 88. And you square
yourself
and really focus.
The pitch comes out
wild and lopsided
and disastrous.
You hit a mailbox
crater a windshield
—a small dog. All
of them
Kaput.
And as you throw I saw
the pain mount—run
into your old
shoulder like a river. Old
machine, red faced on a little
mop body
chugging but
still little
and furious.
Ripe
In Habana, warm
sudden rain hisses red tile.
We eat Guayaba.
El Golpe Avisa 