the red line at midnight
on the subway
a middle-aged man
with scraggly grey hair
taps us on the shoulder
to show us a handwritten sign
which says,
I am deaf
please help if you can,
to some extent
causing a younger man behind us
to yell,
he ain’t deaf
he can talk
I’ve heard him
don’t fall for it,
also to some extent
so I shake off the beggar
and say, sorry, in the process
which he may
or may not have heard
the subway is always full of characters
and as each peculiar moment passes
under flickering fluorescents
another one is conceived
and soon it shall breathe life
for all us late night travelers to see
and occasionally
eye contact is shared
and held
between fellow strangers
only to remain held
as images
and preconceptions
unravel in the mind of two
cherish all of these moments
even the dancing man
selling sticky incense which smells of medicine
for they are real
and unflattering
and isn’t that what we love most?
half*mad
We move toward the mirage
with legs doused in sand
and sleeves rolled up into our armpits.
But it’s there—
oh, I can see it.
Shimmering in the golden haze
like the sine waves of air
behind a bbq pit.
Drench the coals in kerosene
and drop a match on the grill
so we can watch the flames jut towards the heavens
mimicking the sharp tips of the wooden fence
looming in the background.
The mirage is there
that much I promise.
And though our throats are dry
and lips chapped
and hands scaly with dead skin
those shimmering waves of air
are calling my name
beckoning me with curled fingers.
Can’t you hear?
You have to listen closely
for sometimes the whispers
are louder than the rest.
looking for what
Should we start?
What should we do?
Should we stop?
What should we do?
What are we looking for?
What are you looking for?
Why are you looking at me?
I don’t have the answer
and neither do you.
Does this overall lack of clarity
surprise you?
Welcome to the maze.
The infinitely
twisting
maze
of tomorrow
and the beast
of
yesterday.
Forget your trail of bread crumbs
for it has already been devoured.
mr. demille
Enough of science and art;
close up on purple stains & pale smoke,
the smiling Descent of Winter
and a woe weathered halfgone moon.
Close up on the flight of a human soul
surmounted by black and white heroes of the past—
life suspended between familiar blank fields
and rueful skies.
Close up on the uniform of intellect,
an insect’s unseen calm
and the skin of a ripe plum
colored blue from the languorous light of the sea.
When we’re able to outshine the pageantry of fear
those towering tombs with swiveling eyes
appear barren
as they are and have forever been.
victory
Phil Collins belts out his cheesy vocals
that echo through our kingdom
our 80s palace perched atop the hills of purity
the elevated ridges that lie above a fog of dissipating honesty.
Facades and lies and masks that hide the soul have no place in our
paradise of vulnerability—our sanctuary of truth and beauty and
childish courage that swims through the succulent veins of soldiers
hoisting loaded rifles with glimmering bayonets leading the way.
a collision of sorts
I was buying a cheap 40 oz.
with my dog in tow
when a young homeless man came up behind us
he was blond and tan
but his eyes were darty and distant
and immediately I knew
all of my change would be his
why?
I don’t know
because my pain runs deep with them
every single one
but I can’t give it all away
I can’t empty my wallet
at the drop of a frown
no matter how much I want to
so I restrain
I dissect
and I second guess
but always
every goddamn time
I’m left with a sickness in the pit of my stomach
that nags
and tugs
and tries to suffocate my happiness
but I won’t let it because I can’t bear to think of myself in such a
hollow position surrounded by such hollow souls with slicked back
hair and crisp lapels and legs that are trained to migrate away from
the uneasy stare of misfortune
hell no
I can’t let it eat me alive
I’m too weak
so I donate when I can
as often as I can
and attempt to move on
because I have to
but every now and then
one of the wounded come limping up
and try to pet my dog
but he’s growling
and I wonder why
but maybe he’s just scared
maybe we’re all scared
so I look at the wounded soul
and I don’t care what he’s done
for I’ll never know
and I don’t care why he did it
for I’ll never know
and I hand him all of my change
and walk away before his thank you reaches my ears
a walk up hillhurst
people pack inside the coffee shop
with their computers
and notepads
and wandering eyes
pretending to be infinitely important
and endlessly perplex
when all they actually want is to be seen
and to be comforted
by a group of strangers
who share the same insecurity
because those wandering eyes
aren’t meant to ward anyone off
or protect precious work
they’re lonely invitations
to a disappointing party
an empty beachside mansion
with the host asleep on the couch
watered down whiskey still in hand
so I get my coffee to go
and find a nearby bus bench
where I can write alone
until an old man
holding two bags of groceries in each hand
takes the open seat to my left
as I finish my poem
a nice walk can invigorate the mind
and inspire tired knees
but on my way back
I see a cat sitting on a windowsill
who pays no attention to me as I pass
entirely unaffected by my presence
I guess I don’t mean anything to him
but he means something to me
— Cliff Weber
Cliff Weber is 26 years-old and lives in Los Angeles. He has self-published three books and two chapbooks, all of which can be purchased on lulu.com and in select bookstores. His work has appeared in Adbusters, Out of Our, Beatdom, Bartleby Snopes, and Burningword, among others. He will begin the Creative Writing program at USC in the fall of 2013. Follow his blog, Word Meds (www.wordmeds.la), for your daily dose of literature.
