Its all a mash so how do you make it come out in any coherent way?

How do you separate the standing in front of your grammar school in the shade of the gym, waiting for the teachers to open the doors, the safety patrol (younger than you) snapping like pitbulls when you step out of the single file line to whack another student with your oversized pencil case from the singer pleading "Fair thee well" and the heart and the hands strumming, the anger in his pleasantries, invented on a train? How do you do it when, in fact, you are the teacher savoring the last few minutes of morning quiet and you are the student hitting another and you are the one being hit. You are the safety patrol pitbull and you've never even seen a pitbull and you are the singer strumming for forty years, outcast for choosing to plug in?

Maybe I am not a professional basketball player, but I am happy with this ending.

I am happy with this ending: Mike Colado, sunken living room sleep over, truth or dare and magic mushroom pizza, sixth grade, the gods must be crazy and goonies, too much soda. The pool out back, his father's mustache like the shag carpet we slept on. The unbreakable coffee mug we hit with a hammer. I am happy with this ending.

His house, though, on a hill: I cannot seem to place it on the map in my mind.

This just happened, though it could also be a lyric from a Bob Dylan song

Mona Lisa was drunk in the park on a Wednesday, and when I walked by she asked me to dance. As she twirled me, she asked for my name, but she mistook what I said for "Truth."

Local Haiku

In the room's still heat

old women discuss a fu-

ture that is not theirs.

Martin marched forward forwardly as the hall collapsed, leaving the throne buried beneath a pile of pillars.

My ankles tell me it is time for a diet.

I'm lost again, here in the world and following, heading in a straight line

The forgotten narrative of the black geek, blowing up model airplanes for his onlooking friends viewing through movie binoculars, buried beneath all the rest of us.

The bike path covered in rattlesnakes, thick and agitated, threatening death. We stop and look, take out our smart phones for a picture. This is how the story goes.