His Name Is Sam
His name is Sam. Nice kid, with etiquette you just don’t hear
these days. Every moment was a “Thank you.” Every
finger stained. Most of his teeth have rotted. He has an abscess
on each side of his neck, yet still, he smiled when he approached me
for a cigarette. I gave him one, then asked How old are you?
He said “twenty-five. May 4th 1994.” O, I smiled O May the Fourth
Be With You. I saw gums. I got to see Sam laugh. Laughter
these days is rare, especially in the tracks of fentanyl, Xanax,
but laughter heals. I got to hear Sam laugh. He stayed with me longer.
He’s not from here. From SoCal or the Midwest. I can’t remember.
What I can remember is his frightened yet stubborn spirit.
I asked him Are you done? “I’m not ready. It’s not working
for me anymore, but I’m not ready.” Still? After another day
of rinse, cycle, repeat, rise and shine to shoplift, to scrape money,
to shove needle to vein, to nod off to escape, to worry mom
again, to avoid living, to rely on delusion, convinced —
it’s a mere stroll through a blazing fire … He said
“I’m not ready.” I looked down, then raised my eyes to meet his.
I looked into him, his eyes, and said —
You know something Sam?
You are loved.
You deserve to live,
to have this —
this pure connection,
this swathe of unconditional love,
this reverence for life.
Come home, Sam.
Come home.
* * * * *
No One’s Perfect
“No one’s perfect,” he says with a wobbly grin,
a hollowed iris, a yearn to tame the pupil.
He reeks of another day with a Steel Reserve
nestled in between his legs. He says, he’s in between
construction jobs and heading home from work.
I nod, grin, and glance down. I see his knife.
I wonder if he still plays guitar. He leans in closer,
smothering me with his stench of B.O. and alcohol.
I hold my breath as if that will make him disappear.
I used to see him every week when we were kids
at the main public library. I would stare at him, wishing
he sat closer to me. Not once did I think he’d stab me.
We would exchange poetry before listening
to Nirvana, and testing out distortion pedals.
We got high to laugh off the pain our mothers
passed through us from breast to lips. We couldn’t laugh
that long, and eventually, I stopping writing, and so did he,
and eventually I would start writing again, he wouldn’t.
I shift my gaze. Why does he have a holster for his knife
like that? The more I lean away, the closer he gets,
and I see his slurred years, his string cheese hair,
his premature wrinkles, his despair caught between his teeth. I want out.
I tell him, 7th Ave. is my stop, and walk twelve blocks
to only find myself back days later, in between the cracks
of pavement, walking, yearning — a tight spinning head
with a cigarette in hand — desperate
to vanish
mid-sentence
* * * * *
At the Church in Sacramento
California, February 2022
The chairs would move if they could.
The raucous impenetrable voices stop
when the corroding grief trapped in my lungs
whispers You’re almost done.
I plod my way through the Church’s nave,
making the sign of the cross with my middle finger.
To my right,
I see the timber cross of Christ crucified,
his painted white skin, his ribcage extended,
his titled white head facing left. There is nothing
left in getting her back. My salvation is smoked down
to the bud and shoved into a beer bottle.
The mother of my three daughters refuses me,
but I know where she is what she does
who fills each valve of her heart with love. Love
meant for me. My mind is racing like a centipede
crawling on the wall, fast and quick.
She will know again my kiss lasts longer …
Who doesn’t want to be loved?
Out on bail, I’m ready to be observed. I watch
the chaperone pray before walking toward me,
not knowing prayer won’t save anyone
from the man I am. My three daughters grin
as they walk toward me. The grass outside
this church is overly sheared, sharp as the switch
inside my mind. There’s a song from the book
of hymns, my youngest would sing —
Watch, be ready. We know not the day He comes.
Are your vessels filled with oil?
Mine, baby girl, are filled with two, twenty-three ammo.
In Genesis, God made the world in six days.
Watch what I can do in less than a minute.