Sunday, March 01, 2015

Like Counting Gulls

Foreign fighters flock
to the tune of a billion terrors.
The instruments, though digital,
still function as pre-medieval.
Sledge hammers do not erase
seven millennia of  stone history
so much as make virtual icons
of jackass perpetrators.
We down play perpetuation
as armies trek their annual
migrations across capital capitols.
All those domed spaces
seem to need the toll of bells
as they gleam under star fall.
We go strewn as shrapnel
and broken seashells
under the constant trickle
of time, the infinite ripple.
All pools at tidal edge.
Now you see the next combatant
lose all his downy feathers.
His hands no longer useful
for letters. Language lacks 
both permanence and perfection
no matter which prophet speaks.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Almost Buds

We were the winter trees
in chill mist and dank,
close as glass to drizzle.
I remember your hand
settling around the page
under the pillow
and between days.

We drank hot tea and talked.
Deep thoughts and serious,
we laughed at society
and our lack of place.

The equinox and new leaves
dot a weft of twigs and stems;
fringe the mist with promise.
How impossible
being this age
and never pledged.

Circumstances force us
to be the forest.
We come to a place
where memories rest.
A stone throat speaks
the heart’s silence.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Under Doll

The media eye rolls
over the female body.
This is not everybody.

I find myself in front
of the cutting edge.
Hold the honing steel.

The oval, the opal, the
range finder fastened
securely to the barrel.

More than Mississippi
nights flow through
grassy boundaries.

Could this be big fur?
I’ll take the baseball—
paint your face on it.
Could be my home run.

Wednesday, March 06, 2013


The night has big lips
and smiles with an overbite.
O Moon, she lets her
bright tits hang out.

I'm doing a donkey time
dancing on this one foot &
singing without any strings.

Old Lady Moon she makes
me swoon and bottles of
silver toots. I guzzle her wine
and she fills me fine like
ladles and goblets and boots.

Drip me your love, your
tears like pearls, and I'll
loll in your old blue gazebo.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Way Over

Way Over

On the way
we knew
it would be over
by the time
we got there
but we had to
get there
we could believe it.
We were
on the way.
There was no way
we would stop
We didn't think
about it.
We couldn't.
We wouldn't
if we could.
It might have
be better
if we had,
but it still
wouldn't be good.
We didn't
let the mood
By the time
we finally got there
there was
nothing left
but left overs.
We couldn't leave
on our own.
Our destination
was our destiny
but not our
No Johnny
Come Lately
we were always
ahead of ourselves
even when
we were
behind the times.
Delay was
in the way.
Detour was
de rigueur.

Saturday, August 11, 2012


Behind gold bars the saints of Sacks
and Goldman reign free as they will

ever be—solitary in their precious
minds. No need to prosecute the rule

writers. What use? What wrongs us?
Regulators play later like actors with

no heart. Oh, the fungible chains of
imperial favor, the up and dash to it,

the down at the Dow; Oh, legendary
ledgers, wages and wagers, Uroborus

consumer, Slice-O-Matic appliance
financers—toast me over easy as living.

Out of Context

Out of Context
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