I hate how the world treats the gentler things.
"Darwinism," the capitalist shouts from the inside of his train. Choog choog. Spits out black tar air, tracks that cut through my garden and the burialground of the birds my cat caught this summer.
Joel was hit by a car.
"Blacked-out in the air," he had said playing video games in his underwear on Hannah's bed with scabbed knees, knuckles and nose. Bruised.
I don't like it when the drunk clumsy world takes down my friends.
Andrew got hit last month. Truck accelerated into him at a crosswalk. Guy got out all pissed and what-the-hell-were-you-doing-there attitude.
"What if I had been a kid. I was so mad, I hate feeling mad," 6'5" lumberjack hero on the Charmin paper towel rolls Andrew says to me over the phone when I call him about it.
As kids we watched our dog get hit by a car. Mom & Dad on one side of the road, us three kids on the other (10,8,6) sitting on a grassy hill and he ran to meet us and we all saw it was going to happen. Actually, I didn't see it. Closed my eyes for the impact, at the last second - just like I do in nuclear bomb dreams before the blast overtakes me, the dust uproar when I am concumed by chemical fire.
Car drove away, Mom and Dad cussing and two small children screaming and it was probably for the best. I don't cry. Delayed stress reaction is common with me.

Hate how the big things don't pay attention to the little things.

Ever hear the guitar playing man on Newport Ave. near the Christian Science church? You can only hear if you walk by.

I want to be a protector of the gentle things. Want to do push-ups and learn loud words to yell in the moment.
"You know where I can find the GAY MEXICAN PUPPET SHOW?" Crooked walk transient asks my friend Juan