Mystical Garbage

Mid-July is hitting without hesitation. The heat is bouncing off buildings and amplifying itself. The pavement is bleached, the plants are scarred, the people are stripped and burnt, and the shadows are steaming furiously--and it stinks out here. I'm dragging Sam-dog up some steps away from a couple of Rottweilers, and I nearly trip over an empty can of Krunk Whatever and some Cheeze Yucks stuck to tree sap.

As if I've never been here before, I'm now noticing that every few feet there is a small pile of fast food and sugary drink byproduct, clearly given a further once-over by scavengers. Candy wrappers are ripped by raccoons, french fries pecked by crows, morsels of dog shit are barely visible under a thick coat of flies. Cigarette butts show signs of being resmoked by the dozens and are mounded into noxious, yellow pyramids. Camels, of course.

There are a lot of dumpsters in this part of town, thanks to the many apartments and condos. Multi-dwelling buildings are good for that sort of thing. One need walk but a step or two to lift a lid and drop in whatever debris doesn't contain nutritive value, but, no. Everyone is busily building their shrines to obesity, lung cancer and tooth decay as though there are native urban gods in need of offerings.

Enough of this obnoxious heat. I think I'll go get myself some iced tea. That hit the spot. I wonder which god would like the empty bottle?

My Corner

I was almost picked up for solicitation the other day. Apparently standing in a group of prostitutes and drug dealers when the police roll up, while they pet your pooch (literally my dog), is ill-advised. Several police cars showed up all at once, sirens and lights, billy clubs, guns, etc. I must have looked positively terrified, which is probably why they let me wander off in a daze without saying, “Hey. Where the hell do you think you’re going?” No one else in the group batted an eye. Seasoned vets. Just another day on the corner.

Obviously I’d prefer it if the neighborhood stock brokers, bank tellers and store owners were the only ones to show an interest in Sam-dog, but I have to live with the other element, too. Discriminating against them would only make me stand out and possibly invite conflict. Who am I to judge, on disability and facing discrimination of my own each and every day in small ways?

Then there was the one hooker who thanked me for letting her pet Sam. Nothing could have been more effective at letting me know, once and for all, that we are all created equal but only on paper.

Poetry for People Who Hate Poetry

For Quick Sale

this
mer-
chan-
dise
has
been
re-
duced
to
tears.






Regrade

The constructive crane-neck
Of brontosaurus
Came before us
To nuzzle a weighty head
Into a lake bottom.
The slam-walk and ram-top
Of triceratops
Leveled levees of the past.
The final thrash
Of tyrannosaurus rex
Wrecked an acreage
Not in defiance of nature
But in compliance with stature.
We who lack such strength
Make up for it in steel.





The Unfriendly Takeover

...almost forgetting
the sting for the prickling
of tiny steps

tripping over hairs
and dodging moles

insipid trolls
of the animal kingdom

striving up the food
chain link by swarming
crawling link

beasts without
burden being
light as air

the burdened ones to
be their daily giant-fare

as they grow
with poverty
and breed in filth

in a world shrinking
from its insect wealth

She'll Miss Him

For more of my brother's genius, check out his site:
bryanubaghs.com...
















...and his Facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bryan-Ubaghs/180677715455?v=wall

About the Photo

She was positively stunning, with perfect brown skin and a hot yellow dress that showed every flaw as if it were an asset. By her feet was a drained energy drink bottle stuffed with the crack she earned standing in just that spot before someone took her away earlier. She was so fucking young and obviously frightened, watching her wrangler amble down the street. Clean, neat, polished and in her thrift store free bin finery, I was ready to adopt her on the spot.

I wanted to run up to her and say, "Are you, ya know, selling, um... anyway, you're way too pretty to be a street girl. You'll be scarred and chewed up within a week's time. Come live with your weird new white mom in her 434 square feet of pure luxury. There's one toilet that usually flushes. The couch has dog pee on it, but you're welcome to sleep there any time. Oh, hell, take the bed! Are you hungry? No? Still high? My bad."


After I snuck the shot while pretending to be texting, I smiled and said, "Hi." It came out a little too cheery and forced, but she didn't seem to notice and treated me to a return smile that I hope to see again some day.

My Rehab Boyfriend Had Fourteen Heads

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