Shooting Ghosts

I don’t
remember
ever feeling totally sane

or fitting in
not even as
a kid with six-shooters
hanging from my hips

they all 
wanted to be the same
with their 
fucking chocolate cake
and football

too much thunder
not enough thunder
the wrong color thunder

typing alcohol
and drinking words

all those goddamn ghosts
keep waving their dirty sheets
at me …  

it is not
a sane world, they insist
but it is, however, a world
a crazy neon painted
bikini plus kisses world

okay, mothers, I am in it.

The Ski Bum

Skiing …
Northern California slopes
the snow falling
gently
fresh
clean
the wind bites your ears
skid to a stop
drinking cold whiskey
from a kidney-shaped
soft flask
letting that
liquid chill the skeleton inside
and sliding down the rest
of the mountain
wondering
in all this beauty
the snow-covered Christmas trees
the bunnies bopping along
the sweet curves of female skiers
twisting right and left
in all this beauty
wondering
why the best things
in our lives
are the crazy ways
we’ve invented how to play
to forget
to distract ourselves
while
the cold-blooded politicians
plot to take it all away.