Garbage Rats
They blend in at the dump but I can see
my life goes with them in every way.
They shit in my old Amazon boxes,
and bathe (they do!) in my shampoo bottles.
Ah! They boink on my smeared McD wrappers.
I sense their steady oneiric output
as they then nap a-top heaps of cellphones
from the 2000s, screens still blinking strong.
Finding half- forgotten bottles of rum,
they plan a party night like elephants—
could be celebrating, could be grieving.
Nature’s benediction is upon them.
Shadow Self
Go watch Billy Jack, or at least the opening.
Mustangs fall off a cliff in Arizona.
You can hear them shriek, you can see their eyes
ripped with fear at the cruelty of the film crew
who want an epic helicopter shot, 1971-styles.
In the film, Billy fights off “dirty Indian”
with hapkido, kills a rapist, and a white cop.
As Bill-J, Tom Laughlin is Native American
as he is Korean. A busy Mick trying
to make it big off a few crescent kicks,
power-to-the-people,
and second-wave feminism.
Remember forty years later?
Mel’s phone meltdowns at Oksana.
Tom publicly analyzes them
from a Jungian lens, kindly wags
a finger and explains the shadow self:
a universal, human circumstance.
Well, in 2010 I was only four years
sober and I wanted to excuse Mel,
smooth his ugliness, roam an apocalyptic
outback with him and his Blue Heeler.
I didn’t pick up again until 2018,
Midtown Manhattan at the Pod 51 hotel.
Just a few shots of Johnny Walker Black.
It was okay—I watched Mickey Rourke’s
Homeboy. Something I missed in 1988.
Chris Walken explains stegosaurus shrinkage
to Mickey and how all the dinos grew wings
and one day flew away. “That’s a true story.”
I like true stories.
They don’t have to sound good, but y’know, they might.
For instance, as shadows fall, they too grow wings.
These days, it’s only a little Crown on the weekends.
I’m okay—Rickie Lee Jones is on the radio.