Austin on a Friday Morning

Rain slapped sidewalks,
bird shit on brick intersections,
a fire truck dashes down Trinity,
its shriek fills the cavity
of Sixth Street silence;
the stink of spilt beer and
humidity hovers like memories
gathered in concrete gutters.

Through window fronts,
chairs rest upside down on table tops;
gray filthy wooden floors,
t shirts and curios wait on racks
and under glass counters:
this is the party's antithesis.

One can not see where
last night's children smoked defiantly,
blowing off morning classes at UT.
One can not see the intersection
where mounted police gathered
to stifle the "sound and fury,"
where joyous and lonely
men and women contested
for each others' lost company.

Now traffic spits angry spray
and wind blows the rain
under canopies, into alleys.
The bums that sit in doorways
push back farther into thresholds.
A cynical tourist, I prowl
Austin on a Friday morning
where forgiveness is possible,
but redemption is out of the question.


Dumb Ass Killing Spree

Jesus doesn't love you,
and I'm gonna take you out,
yeah, you in the blue Lexus
passing double-yellow
four hundred yards
from your yuppie turn off.

Don't worry-I'll be gentle
when I cave your face in
with this hammer
can't take a chance
on my kharma.

And you in that
white king cab, horn blaring,
dusting me as I run
the narrow shoulder by the school;
bet you never read Lear
where Cornwall gouges Gloucester
then stomps his eyeballs with boots.

Don't worry I'll be gentle;
can't take a chance
on my kharma.

Then there's Mr. Kawasaki,
pea green hundred miles an hour,
outrunning sound
while kids wait at bus stops.
I'll help you find the pole
that's right for you-

Don't worry, I'll let gravity
tap you for this dance.
Can't take a chance
on my kharma.

I could care less
whose shirts you wear;
Jesus doesn't love
the bastards of the road.

[Back]