and so it goes

this is, i believe, my seventh blog
they're scattered here and there
begun and abandoned
i haven't decided for sure if this one shall be cast to the wind
or if my heart may change
but if i write here no more
i want to thank you shoebox and ruth for stopping by
and supporting me
being my friends
it's meant much to me
that's all
rick

Derail

when i was a boy
a hundred yesterdays ago
from my father's lap
i would pretend to drive

and at the carnival, i would sit
in the balloon coloured boats
and turn and turn the half moon wheel
but only go round in circles

so off to the merry go round!
where all the pretty ponies grinned
i was so sure they could gallop me off
to an old west adventure
cross painted deserts
jump the fence i couldn't
but they only bobbed up and down
in a zombie march

once, at a theme park deep in the woods
they had a real train, or so it seemed
and the engineer wore a hat
just like casey jones!
but even the tame geese
mocked our two dollar circle

i'm older now and trapped in the knowing
that i still don't drive where i'd like
the ponies won't jump
and that fucking train
just won't derail

lost in the pause

Yesterday i was many things
and today i am  only one

a farm is a field is a fence to a cow
a drive to a house to a man full of labor
and a barn full of sunrises
blazing stories over meadow

A day is a morning
full of coffe and promise
a lunch is a pause in a midnight sun
and the afternoon sets a table for
twilights mischief

I have been these things, only yesterday
But today, i am only a dirty mug
on a barren shelf in an empty barn
the needle that drones
at the end of a Victrola's symphony

I suppose the many things i was yesterday
go on without me as they should
in the land beyond my surrender
where the colours hid my fear

But i have found to let them go
is to be let go if never was
yesterday i was many things
today i am only one

disorder

my hair flies wild these days, where it will,
as countless minuscule beams of
sourceless light, and so do i

was a time it lay buttered and tamed
capped and clipped proper
like a boy's first day at school
before the apple lost it's shine
but then, so did i

some tell of an explosion;
have you heard it? BANG!
and off they went! shooting this way
falling that way, a billion stars
in a cosmic fart tumbling
end over end in a radiant giggle

only to settle in the dust
of a first breath's whisper
where the symmetry of all we know
and dream, finds definition

it seems the tale of order,
this giant ball of gas condensed in black
sitting like a dozing judge before
endless testimony and blind witnesses
as so then, did i

but in so much order
like a sausage left in the sun
depth is a stench that
breaks the heart's spirit

a place where dreamless still men
on seas of glass drift blindly in circles
while never trod lands languish
and disappear beyond secret horizons

once in a universe does the cosmos fart
but everyday a twig breaks
snap! snap!
and chaos bears a child

a door slams, the dog barks
the cat jumps, the bird flies
and so do i

Baton Rouge

i hate this sky that can't decide
this broken wing, that just won't fly
i hate the things i didn't say
and the things i did
that went astray

there's a river flowing through me now
and it spills where it will
forking into cat tails
standing like soldier's tombstones

well, damn that river
and it's crazy ways
and damn the bridges
that spare you from me

and damn the light of yesterday
that illuminates today
where i fell and broke your leg

i knew a young boy once
and damn him too
and he knew a girl
who damned him one better

and i knew a highway
that knew a field
and together they conspired
to jester me to you

and i knew our name
scrawled by you in timeless sand
but if there we now went
could we find us in it?

damn the no i know
you knew

damn the ways that churn me black
the things i said
i can't take back
damn the things i didn't say, and
damn the loss of yesterday
damn this sky that can't decide
and damn this Baton Rouge

insanity

insane?
me??
says who?
oh, yeah, guess i did

well, what is sanity anyway,
in a world such as this?

this is a place that calls God love
then kills in His name
just to prove it

a place where starvation
grows like kudzu in Georgia
as billion dollar satellites play bumper cars
to get the better picture of it

we put up signs and erect fences
to claim ownership of an acre of earth, and
am i crazy to not understand, how
a person can own a piece of planet?

we kill our children
who quite readily, return the favor
and build mansions as empty tombs
turning stone into tin
only to vacation in busy campgrounds
to better bitch

i have thoughts
haven't you?
crazy ones, ones
that make me hide in myself
as in, what the fuck was that?
did any one see?

but i rarely see them through
does that make me sane
or criminally civil?

maybe we're all insane
that would explain much
and maybe I'm just a minority member,
insane beyond the loop

after all, democracy defines truth
and righteousness

i like my crazy thoughts
i like that i question theirs

i wish i could say that i have hope
that the sane will save us all
once they root out the rebels
but i fear
someday
only the bumper cars in space
will tell the tale
and the bones and blood
won't care to listen

contradiction

contradiction


hedonism;
it's not so bad once everything else is lost



man and machines;
today i saw a pair of fox
racing each other across the highway
one made it, the other didn't
a piece of car flew as if the price
the golden fox, so unaware
was trampled, rolled,
and skidded in final movement


what a waste

i looked at its tail of harvest sunset
flawless and softer
than any love i ever knew

i hate us for what we are
and yet,
my chips are on the table
steaming for an ace

hedonism;
it's not so bad, once everything else is lost

we the strong

ok, i abhor us
is that clear enough?

the high-pitched squeal of the apple tree
says, come!
be blessed of my fruit
rest in my shade
make love to my limbs
and bring a friend

but we rattle our sabres, pillage and destroy
wanting the best
wanting the all
and we piss a deed in crafting laws
carving initials, building fences
til at last, in a violent shake
the rot that fills the earth
is our very own in ugly conquer

we, tin soldiers us,
invent threats from hungry souls
and forgotten hearts
while we build our cities
with the bones of the weak
grinding them into battle hymns
that reverberate through history
teaching a stronger generation of warriors

we are a warring noisy people
greed is our bagpipe
the glint of steel our code of honour
and the backs of the unsuspecting vanquished
our very foundation

and this do i abhor
for i have learned it as well

my stuff

I remember long ago in my youth, the first real good sleeping bag i bought.
It said it would keep me warm down to twenty below and it kept its word.
Still does
But when i got it home i noticed it came with a tiny blue sack.
From my knees i held it up, studied it, shook it.
No way this big puffy ball of warm was going in this thing!
But liking a challenge, i tried my best.
I tied it, rolled it, folded it, this way and that, over and over as the sweat beaded
and the FUCKS! flew bouncing off the walls.
Finally, i called the company to explain they had given me the wrong sack.
I could tell by her laughter that i wasn't the first to call in with this problem.
"that's why it's called a stuff sack, sir. you just grab a handful and start stuffing!"
That seemed crazy to me and against everything i'd ever learned, but agreed to give it a shot.
Sure enough, in a minute or so the bag was completely encapsulated in the tiny sack, tight as a drum.
I sat back on my haunches and marveled.
It seems this has become my life

a lot of stuff, ya know?
and me being a people, i figure i'm supposed to carry it all.
So i fold, roll, tie n tuck-but it don't fit.
Kinda like an ostrich who thinks just cuz his head is in the hole, his ass must be gone too.
But it aint. Its right there, just prime for kickin
So i stuff til it fits, but then it's like a possum, tits up three days on the highway.
A ghastly explosion is imminent and there'll be plenty to go around
So fuck the stuff
I'll leave it where it lies
Walk lighter
And leave the crows to to feast on the
bullshit i can't carry

birth in a quiet valley

we've baked and bleached in the burning sand,
been robbed in the markets of Bang-kok
we buried our keel in the shoals off Singapore
and derailed our train in Berlin

hell, we've raised, and tasted its sulphur
as we filled our purse with mistakes
come here, sweet thing, and lie with me
and i'll lie to you til i'm gone

hands we took in treacherous grasp
while fingers crossed our painted kisses
oh! the songs we sang to the great blue northern
that shook its head in mournful disdain

oh grey moon, you're mine, you're mine!
as if saying it made it so
and the river too, it spoke to us
til we silenced it still with our wisdom

we held the bird in twisted grip
pretending we lived within
but to the trees that shook with shame
it flew to pray for rain

so come with me, let's pitch our tent
to quiet the rage that roars
let's carry our wings to the valley floor
begin with streams and butterflies,
the tender grass we'll nest upon
is the birth we missed before

The Edge

(i'll be damned if i didn't write this in the morning, and live it at midnight. No details-the sheriff's still lookin for me)



gettin itchy, so's
i buy a newspaper
and notice my trigger finger twitch

the banker slides his key in the door
and sneaks a cautious glance
over his shoulder

i close one eye
and raise the other eyebrow
while he fumbles his keys stupid

i sneer, then laugh
as he nearly tumbles through the door
just like someone put a blow torch to his ass!

as i saunter down the street
the little boys stop playing catch while
the women scurry, and men scramble
their pocket watches

i light a smoke-and listen, just listen
to the rhythm of my own spurs
that long to burn flank
across blazing desert sand

i wanna shoot a man
force a woman
rob a bank
steal the sheriff's horse
-just to feel the chase

i had a sidekick once
but sidekicks like winners
and that busted bank heist in Omaha
that netted thirty two dollars
and a shot out tail light
was too much for ol Rusty

Rusty wasn't lookin for danger,
just a poke to buy that dusty ranch down in El Paso
and i wish him well

but i ain't scratchin for no ranch,
ain't needin a chrome covered Cadillac
and i dang sure don't need the fame
of billy the kid or db cooper
-crazy bastards

i just need the chase
the rush i feel when i near
the edge of the mesa
and the dust of the posse
tickles my nose

that moment of desperation
which makes a horse's nostrils flare,
wishin they were wings

i'd rob that bastards bank
but bankers are fat and slow
i'd fuck the mayor's wife
but she might like it too much
to complain
but now, that there sheriff,
he's lookin mean
and his horse looks fast
think i'll mosey over
and give it a better look

so many ways

the hawk, resting only in flight
as it disappears beyond the ridge,
and that maverick wolf, with the soulful stare
so God-damned far, and yet,
so far beyond anything he sees
feeling a place he's never been

the weary sea turtle, lumbering through the sand
bidding good luck and good riddance-
you miserable little bastards!
while the darling momma cat bird, this time,
let's the phone just keep on ringing

so many ways...

hey! let's keep in touch,
she shouts in belie
you have my number
don't you?
and don't forget to write
uh huh, uh huh

sometimes
it's a slow rolling tear falling
on fingers released from fingers
or perhaps,
only footsteps in the hall

and sometimes
it's an uneasy laugh,
a hug that no longer fits
or the rubber band
sealing a stack of letters

and so it goes...

then later, all too often,
it resonates
like a wind blown church bell
in a desert ghost town
or the seventh skip of a stone
that only pretended it could fly

i sit upon these timeless shores
where lovers bade farewell
and i listen
to the sun melting
into blue,
a foghorn bearing warning
and the lunatic gulls
chasing waves that can't be caught

and i think, to the night,
sometimes it comes in silence,
and sometimes
silence
is the right goodbye

perfect compromise

would one
be nearly so beautiful
without the other?

still moment

twenty four guns to the starboard!
twenty four more to my port!
a cockwiggle grin to know my chin
and a cutlass full of grip

and the rockets red glare!
the bombs bursting in air!
yada yada yada

the jack hammer breaks the world in two
all rat-a-ta-tat rat-a-ta-tat!
while alarms sound the fire
and sirens chase the thief

a fist for the belly
a stick for the snake
and dynamite just in case

but here and just now,
in this stillest of time
befor hell rises up
its a canoe i glide

a silent paddle that slices
and dips while there, on the shore,
the grey goose nurtures her young
near the turtle
sleeping the fallen log

across the lake, the loon
cuts the silence of this frozen
time, penetrating
the mist rising from this northern lake
not yet awake, but stretching
in yawn

the slightest of breeze
dances the willows skirt
before washing my face
in its echo glow

just before me, a lone bass
leaps for no reason
and the red fox going home
pauses a glance from shore

yes, a screen door will slam
a woman will yell
and a Johnson will fire to life
in search of the bass's hideout

the telephone men will coffee
at Carol's Diner, comparing
bowling scores while the road crew
don the orange blaze and
the school busses lumber their duty

jackhammers, sirens and alarms
will surely follow this path
and violence shall rise with the sun

but now, and just now,
for a moment or so more
i see a canoe
and hear the loon
in this stillest of moments
while i consider the price
we've paid to progress

Corporate Kisses

remember?
the taste of that first sweet kiss
down there, in the green green grass
where the laughing brook dances

you crooned and clark gabled me
with tales of riches and enchanted adventure
while i clenched my tender thighs,
hoping my blush went unnoticed

and to your pictures of the Riviera,
as i swayed and swooned into your gilded arms,
i swear i almost peed!

and though you never said
-and how could i be?
that i was your first,
your kisses told me i was

then there was that gold watch,
the big wedding,
where all your family crimsoned my pale cheek
with their kisses of blood-let deceit

and that first year together,
when never once did i burn your supper
or scorch your shirt with my iron
well, it seemed bliss enough
as i never really believed
the Riviera part anyway

and chagrin, did i barely
as time and again
you bent me over
in hopes of making me
your sporting whore

but then, the plated watch
began to keep time
with the loss of its charm
whilst your family forgot my name,
but not that i was your whore

and darling master, my bewitching lord,
is it then any wonder
that a shirt got scorched
and the soup turned tasteless?

now, in the shadows of the dim fire light,
i watch you in your den
all brandy and robe
with a pipe full of silent smoke

while outside on the porch
gathered with the moths,
your whores line the rail, fill your swings,
and wave to garner your attention

how can they know
that this haggard wretch
peeling your potatoes
was once, as well, a shimmer of beauty
in the eye of your needle?

so while the iron burns through
yet another fine shirt
while the bread falls flat in the oven,
i glance to the window framing
your porch full of fools
and know
my time draws near

and here, in my final knowledge,
i spit in your potatoes
and tell you, with bags nearly packed
you're a lying bastard!

horses can't fly
and you'd fuck your own mother
if she wasn't filled with the clap

(in case you're wondering, this is a love poem to employers)

A Lantern

when the moon rises
and the wheat praises
in holy alleluia.
when it clears the chimney,
passes through the warm smoke
and sails the winter pine,
i'll hang a lantern in my heart;
a beacon of remembrance
of the moment you were,
when yet, you still believed

then as it hangs, just there, on nothing,
i'll walk that wheat and feel the chaff,
climb that roof and twirl the smoke
in warm silken magic

and then limb after limb
i'll climb that pine
to let needles remind me
we were real once,
when nothing else was
when yet you still believed

She, She and he

as the bell jangled, i looked up
as though i didn't
for that's how the game is played

i don't know if she,
or her breeze that followed
noticed me give inquisitive chase
but so it is in the stoic forest

she had cypress trunks for thighs
with branches and leaves sprouting
where they will, while her hair
dizzied the atmosphere like Absalom's
before the tree claimed it's prize

in all, she seemed a Sherman tank
with twin turrets lacking nonsense
and yet,
somehow too,
an alpha rose fresh in bloom

when she spoke, i smelled the cinder,
felt the burn, and my eyes vapor trailed
to the scenting flower, smouldering
in her shadow

this one was tall, willowy
and delicate as a bride's veil
-before the first raunchy toast

her smooth, lean legs moved as a whisper,
her white lace shirt fell softly
to her tiny shorts,
and her quiet steps
gently echoed the march
of the cannons

from a safe distance i listened to the cypress
claim the forest floor while the tender breeze
petaled her wake with adoration

there was nothing in this, worthy of mention
until the cypress spoke loudly
to the forest Lord, saying,
"it's his first time here"

as my eyes lasered, breaking every rule,
the breeze inhaled itself
and the forest hushed and grew still

the lace white shirt knew no guns
nor the tiny shorts a hip
worthy of any launch

and in those few seconds of quiet still
upon the forest floor,
i searched for the boy
but instead
accepted the pretty flower
who accepted my smile
and the breeze blew once more

Amy

Amy Amy Amy
where's my moral parallel

hey! didja hear the one about amy and the...
oh, ya heard that one
how bout when Lettterman said...oh
ok, then when Leno said she was...

well, anyway, didja see her in that pic?
where she was runnin down the street, bawling,
in just her underwaer on Sunday morning?
wow! yeah, wasn't that a hoot?

she looked a lot better, hot as hell actually,
before the drugs rotted her teeth
and made her skeletal

shit, i heard in the Ukraine,
she was staggering and couldn't even
remember her own words.
lucky they didn't kill her!

amyamyamy
where's my moral parallel

hey! didja hear amy died?
yeah, sad as shit
only 27
-27 forever

i loved her
oh yeah, i was always on her side
too bad no one could help her

these things happen, man,
but at least she'll be a star forever

i saw her once,
God, was she good!
she autographed my underwear!

hey! didja hear the one about lindsay...
oh, you heard that one
yeah, what a total whack-job!

amyamyamy
where's my moral parallel?

we oughta be ashamed
cept we're too busy laughing

(yes, Amy's true lyrics read morale-not moral. But i don't think she minds)

This Hour

the rage is born in the east

roils across the atlantic

and like a jet engine
chock full of seagulls
the violence will only grow bloodier

in this, my finest hour
my northward gaze drifts
a wary eye to the storm

i smell the blood before i see it

the trees know, the hills too
and the fields rescind their dance
and play dead

i choose, here and now,
to not be engulfed
to just once, escape
the certain conflagration
that ignites the horizon
but i know better

so i turn to the peace of my hour
when the trees are yet alive
silhouetted against the flowered hills
and the fields full of life

the moon has gone
having done what it could
and the earth stutters in transition

i stutter too
in this last breath of peace
before the day catches fire

The Hard Way

there's a highway to my vision
free of bears, marauders, and lunatics
just take a left at floyd peterson's dairy farm,
a sharp right at the crossroads
and follow the signs

of course, there's laws
and those to enforce em
-and ain't we the lucky ones!

but it's a breeze!
windows down, radio cranked
cherry cokes on every corner, and
lathered in ice!

why, good God!
i saw one place with
49 kinds of ice cream!

trouble is, i always choose the gale over breezes,
bears over puppy dogs,
marauders over preachers
and lunatics for companions

why, i've nudged elbows with jed smith,
drank hugh glass under the table afore
he get half ett by the bear
and outrun colter when them blackfeet took chase

and ol bridger aint fit to saddle my pony

but now them damn highways
aint caused me
nothin but fits and misery
so it's a brush cuttin i will go

i'll ford the yellowjack
backwallow the tundra
spit back the blizzard
and scale the moose's tooth

i'll rendezvous with pirates,
piss the cape horn screech,
then smoke with the souix
while out shootin the banditos!

more n likely, i'll never reach that vision
but maybe i'll find me another long the way
and  anyway,
even pain should be earned

Crazy

i knew a crazy woman once
she'd be vacuuming a rug
and next thing ya knew
she'd hightail out the back door,
down the hillside
and jump in the lake

we'd all look from our windows
as she stood there
flailing her arms and wailing
oblivious to all
cept the secrets in her mind

we-that is, us sane ones
would shake our heads
and wonder what kind of drugs
would do such a thing

then we'd mow our yards
trim our hedges
and paint our fences
before sweeping our driveways

i later knew another woman
who would run down a hillside
knockin bears into bush,
rabbits into circles,
then clothes and all
she'd jump into a creek
where her wails found rest

i'm not sane anymore
i've learned their secret

Blood In The Field

ever notice the sound footsteps make
in a motel hallway?
the way the light from under the door
is light, just enough?

mr. smith fucks mrs. jones
and then runs off to wal-mart
to buy that anniversary card
for mrs. smith

hmmm, the selection is vast
sweet, yes, to keep the cover,
but not too sweet in case
the cover is blown

not to worry,
mrs. smith throws her arms around his neck
and says, "it's just perfect, Honey!"
while mrs. jones wears his cum
like a ring made of tin

i'd like to blow wal-mart to hell
and sentence hallmark to
clean up the mess

a heart should be a bird made of snowflake
fragile, flawed, unique
and exposed raw to the gale

we steal van gogh and call him our own
-while hearing in stereo
we steal dickinson having never sat
beneath that tree

art should be loved,
appreciated, admired,
touching us deeply
while inspiring
the art within us all


are you a poet?

then rip your fucking chest open!
tear out your beating heart!
slam it on the butcher block!
hack it to pieces,
bludgeon it tender,
and when it's good and fucked up
throw it on the wall in a bloody orgasm!

then, and only then,
fall on your knees, howl like a wind on fire
and weep unabashedly,
crying out, there! see? do you see? for fuck's sake, that is me!!
all of me!!

care not of the beholder
care not for the critics
care not even of the hurt-
care only for the beauty within real

but we hide in curtains
with only our socks showing
and in hallmark jingles
that snake-oil the unsuspecting

we cloak our own feelings
in the trickery of language
then call another's our own,
clinging to the ghost of absolution

it is bullshit i tell you
pure bullshit!
and i stink, same as you

there is no greater crime
a heart may know
than to plagiarize
and no poem beautiful
that does not bleed
whether in joy or in pain
from a bird made of snowflakes

His Name Will BE

his name will be Willis

there was no manger
no myrrh,
no wise men to witness

only the back room of Miller's Grocery
where the dust spangled like a waterfall
flowing down the rays,
bleeding on the vine

but holy it seemed
and to her, bound in her make-shift dream
holy it was

his name will be Willis

her mind spiraled through the moment
painting visions of dreams
that floated free and wild, then
fell scattered upon the hard floor
like candy from a broken pinata


she held the bloody little boy tenderly in her arms
and swayed side to side
as the tears rushed to break free
of the reality that shackles a soul

his name will be Willis

he will be a good boy!
a fine young man!
a gladiator to the future
and a remedy for my pain
-a reason to hope

he will carry the banner of freedom in the thump of his chest
the vision of justice shall rule his way, and the light
in his eyes will guide the many

his heart will be tender, his way gentle,
and his love pure
while his strength will win the day for those fallen

and his name will be Willis!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i met Willis today, in Southern Georgia.
he wasn't at the pool of Siloam healing the sick
or preaching wisdom to the unlearned
from a hillside while feeding the multitude.

he was working in a mill,
wearing scuffed work boots instead of sandals
and his Daddy's watch on his dirty wrist

but i could see that same light his Momma saw
and sensed his tender heart that spawns a pure love

and justice need not be grand to be lovely
nor freedom flagged in bloody colours
to set the chained free

his name is Willis
and he's a good man, Momma
worthy of the hopes that cascaded
your heaven sent dreams,
giving you reason

This My Life

what is it?
is it my follicles dripping rain?
is it my heart that beats against my ribs
like a man wrongly convicted,
crying for release?

i lie here in a vast nothing, watching
my smoke rise up and vanish
and i long, God how i long just now, here
in this empty nothing
-for a tide to rise in harmony
to the moons soft fiddle
for a breath i cannot find
a song i've never heard,
and a colour i've never known

but God! yet and still, i know these must exist!

so this, my life,
is it the seed dormant, shrugged into dust?
or the wish for a beanstalk to a dream?

this poison smoke rises into the vast empty
and here my caged heart cries no! there's more!
there must be more!
remember when...?
a gasp, whispered

so this my life,
is it just to long?
or just to surrender?

the pain of one is no greater than the other,
like death and birth
and in between
is just in between

but here now, in this vast nothing
i reach for the last sliver of hope,
while fearing my longing
has known one too many defeats

i feel my heart still beat against the bars
but the jailer, with his hat down low
and his boots crossed on the desk
knows even one wrongly convicted
will eventually settle in

and outside my window, the hammers fall
where the hangman waits
while smoke rises up
and nothing shrouds the land

yet, I long
this, my life
in between

KADANCE

her boots flowed down her legs
like fresh paint on stainless steel while
her heels nailed the floor to the earth

from my knees, my hands flowed up them
crying, Moses! Moses! Moses!

this isn't a fat cigar chomping banker
grinding the poor under foot,
this is Holy power,
silent and steady
and the rich nature flowing from her fountain
floods my being and melts my core

her fingers, like soft ivory
drive her panther claws deep into my flesh
branding my fettered stillness
with the insignia of her life

with need overcoming fear, i look up
into the radiance of one never vanquished
and her eyes of black flame weigh the cost

mountains are never given,
and conquered only in humility after trekking
the gentler slopes, and this i do
with peasant kisses as i rise like a dolphin
through her emerald depths, pausing
to press to her heat rising up
through shadowed crease

as i draw nearer to the furnace
i find liquor to be a weak intoxicant
and laws, to be laughed upon

this is the only law that matters;
SHE is the power that frees
and no price nor stripe beyond reason

tonight i might drink of the victory fools scorn
and know her breath as my own.
perhaps feel her raven hair upon my face, and
know her breasts as gifts to my tongue
while her pure honey seals purchase agreement
upon my manhood

the grant of knighthood may come by her lips of sultry polish
but only after acknowledging her proper place as Queen.
victory through submission

Smoke Along The Tracks

when springtime comes
in early blossom
and the snow salutes the rain
i will see you there in bluebirds calling
far beyond my pain

when yesterday, returns to find you
and the touch you knew, comes drifting back
look for me in twilight shadows
just there, along the tracks

that ol smoke goes on forever
like a song that never ends
we were lovers once, or so we thought
a blinding comet through the black
til lost we got, and lost each other
still here i'll be, should you look back

when yesterday, returns to find you
if you're there,
remembering
I'll be here, just where you left me
remembering too, in summer's twilight
in that smoke along the tracks

oh little lost one, when will you find me?
my scarlet jewel, where could you be?
are you there, in summer thunder?
or autumn's wither, a trembling leave?
when winter's frost, bestills the silence
know for us, yet still i grieve

if yesterday, returns to find you
will you still remember me?
I'll be here, just where you left me
i'll be here, remembering
i'll be here, in moonlight's gleaning
in that ol smoke, along the tracks

trite

can't look ahead to the next game, Jim
gotta stay focused on this one
our guys gave a hundred and ten percent
-left nothing on the floor
you know, Harry, you can never count these guys out!
wow! he got all of that one, Lance!

i think we're all agreed,
there's no place for partisan politics on this issue, Katie
the good people of this country deserve better
we need to come together
or then, the terrorists win, don'tcha see?

one small step for man,
one giant-yeah, we know, we know!
amen

he broke my heart, Martha!
shattered it into a million pieces!
oh, he's perfect, Jane!
all i ever dreamed of!
roses are red, violets ain't purple

the door swings both way's mister!
don't let it hit you on the way out!
if you're gonna live under my roof,
you'll abide by my-yeah, we know
amen

i swear!
if i hear one more bullshit
worn out fucking tired cliche, or
see one more silly smiley emotican,
i'll hit the roof, i tell ya!
fly the coop
pull out my hair
i'll go mad, i tell you!
and be outta dodge by sundown!


yeah, well fuck you and the horse you rode in on!

along the highway

(not sure if i've previously posted this, but fuck it, i'll post it again, jus cuz i can)

I remember your eyes
in the fields I pass breezing
the same wave in golden luster

The farms of years lean
sway the barns
bending the horizon
into unkempt shadows, that
tell me of your crooked smile

the cities harmonize
your laughter in their
crowded stretch
and life knowing windows

The windmills,
giant and playful
in broken rhythm
are the time we somersaulted
a soft cool hillside

rivers tell me our dreams, and
still know hope in quiet solitude
beneath the bridge
where the ghost of an ancient
still floats his line

and there, stretching
and shimmering
in dawns first light
are the tracks that carry
the ghost of our spirit
on an otherwise empty train
to Taiwan

Ponds are small wishes
held tightly in our hands
once again young

the day plays its melody
to the things neatly harboured
in our sad remembrance
and once vibrant vision

and I smile
with only a hint of sadness
far shy of regret
while my window down
gulps remorse
and casts it into the ditch
where crows may feast

Broken Pieces

as i walk through this field of candy wildflowers
where once you laid your head,
i gather, but not in the tradition
of storybook religion
but rather, in the style of the gypsy

i scoop! grab! plunder!
six to a pocket, five to a head band
three behind my ear
while pieces of petal, broken wings
and splashes of pollen
jitterbug the bee's drunken tango

and this, all this-i carry
like a wren planning for twelve
running jag-legged and jester crazy
to high on a hillside
where the tallest tree
fans my withered remembrance

and it is from here, high on this crack jangle limb
i lift my tethered heart to a father wind
casting my broken pieces to random hope
before shaking myself innocent
of such petty larceny

then raising my eyes in a soft drawn curtain
i loll my head and laugh
that in this, i am still yet a child
holding to a tangled hope, that
just once, you'll pass by, notice these broken pieces
-smile
and know

easy

it's not my way, see?
but yeah, maybe that's the trouble

my way is to fill the sails full of rage and want,
bulling forward with a bone in my teeth,
while driving the tempest
and chewing the storm to bits
neath my maniacle beard of flames

Lord Nelson's flag ship gone mad
while my wake clutters with the flotsam
from a battle without victor

but today, here and now
before this horizon of unseen storms
i raise a different flag

i lift silk to the sky of challenge,
choosing the warfare of pacifism

today i anchor the schooner
and take a day sail upon the whims
of what be

i will ride easy, gentle
without compass or cannon
and go
where the waves will ride me

scars

bar room toughs all schlitzed and jacked
sneer through heavy brows
and brass knuckled teeth

a stitched jagged line
folded poorly beneath an ear
threads a story still growing
in the shadows of Memphis

a soldier buys his Bacardi soothe
with just a push of a sleeve
showing how little
shrapnel thinks of muscle

a sort of glory, I suppose
and not to be wasted

the former champ's thrice broken nose
a second baseman's
spike shredded calf

all ribbons of a man who fought

my scars, though, hide in lament
shamed in broken trust
stitched in crooked pity

where there is no amigos
no locker room
no challengers
no medals nor purple ribbons

here on this rock
the northern wind salts my wound
while wave upon wave purge the black blood
that streams into crystal blue indifference

a rhythm that couldn't care less
that my grave sports no wings

here it is under a stucco sky
in the shadow of languid pine
that i finger my scars
and miss the affliction

Age

age is funny
Robbins writes in Jitterbug Perfume that there are only two ages
dead or alive
not sure about that
there was a time I thought of places
now I think of ways
I long for the ignorance of my youth
and I despise and rebel against the so-called wisdom
longer nose hairs have brought me
I made more mistakes then
I make bigger ones now
sin was as foreign as a yen in an Omaha jukebox
now it paves my thoughts and erects guardrails
NO PASSING!! DETOUR!!!DOUBLE FINES AHEAD!!!
BEWARE!!! BEWARE!!! BEWARE!!! DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!!
I look at my children and think,
why do they fret so?
why do they not run! leap! climb! love!
they should before they know too much
I should
because the sands grow as thin as mayflies in December
I find myself now a sixteen-year old punk
in an eighty-year old conscience
a chicken dance at an Eminem concert
James Bond in Ernest Borgnines body
and Pussy Galore ain't buyin it
if there truly is only two ages
dead or alive
is there a purgatory?
for the love of God Sister Margaret!
burn me some candles and buy my ass out!

Elusive

I like birds
love em, really
I love anything that can fly and does
but I can hold my hand out all day
and one will never lend itself to my affection

I'd love to pass a wolf on the trail
see his tail swish hello and have him
whisper to my heels
but he won't
he'll only suspect
and duck below the ridge

I wish I had a ticket on a West bound train
or the secret code granting me access
to a gypsy caravan
passage on a schooner
a shared bunk
in a filthy hostel in Belgium
and the key to the day
I once believed these things reachable

we love funny things
things made of smoke and clouds
things we can't have
things that flit and soar
duck and riddle
smile then frown

I don't love fruit loops in the morning
a sun on time
a moon walked on

maybe it's the elusiveness
the long shot
the riddle
that makes love so special

Mary

I used to walk down that old cut road and see her there. That red scarf tied around her raven hair bandana style, like a sixties hippie. Hell, she had a big black peace sign in her window and I guess maybe she was. Her name was Mary and the story went that her young husband went to the Nam and never came back. If there was more, no one ever told me.
It was the kind of road, gravel, with gentle curves and red-winged blackbirds on the wires looking
for mischief. It was a good walk in the summer only a mile to town.
There were never more than two or three vehicles that would pass me and I could've caught a ride if I wanted one, but I didn't, and they knew.
The first half-mile I would think of her, of her thoughts, of her nights. After rounding the bend I could see her place, the small brown house, the falling apart shed, her garden in the back.
That's almost always where she was, on her knees digging. From a distance she looked small, but when you drew near and she would stand up to stretch, you could see she was quite tall and she somehow looked majestic in those torn dirty jeans and T-shirt.
She would barely give me a glance as I came into view, but once in a while I thought I saw a smile
and she would take the bandana off and wipe her hands with it before returning it to her head.
I wanted to talk to her, or rather her to me. God how I wanted it! But somehow I never was able to
bring it about. I'm not sure if it was my fear, or her aloneness, or my fear of her aloneness.
Maybe it was her stature, maybe her ghosts, or maybe she was simply too sacred.
I would pass on her side of the road to be near and slow my pace, hoping she'd say hi or isn't it a lovely day or would you pick up some eggs for me when you're in town, but she only tended her garden while surely feeling my look upon her back.
That's how I remember the summer of '72.
Not the county fair, not my father almost leaving my mother, not my first date at the local theater.
Just Mary and her garden.
And I wonder now if she ever moved, ever remarried, ever had children. I wonder if she believed in God and had a mother who missed her. And I wonder had she invited me in, what she might've said. Would she have made lemonade or fired a joint? Would she have cried because someone was finally there to listen? Or might she have kissed me and seduced me as I imagined on so many of those walks, just like the movie. She would tender my innocence, gentle my shy, take me by the hand and brush back my hair and hold me like i hoped lovers might be held.
But that's the trouble with movies, they're so far from what really happens.
As far as I know, no one in town knew much of her or paid her much mind, and by the summer of '73 she was gone. It was like she never really existed. But the square skeleton of her garden told me she had and the red-winged blackbirds told me I should have.

Red Headed Lil and The Rum River Saloon Pt 1

There was always trouble of some sort at the rum river saloon.
Hell, there couldn't help but be.
Men would drive the cattle for weeks up the Rum where they'd be sold to the West Branch Cattle Company, and from there a fresh set of cowboys would run em up the Whiskey Jack.
So the town, which meant mostly the saloon, would nearly always have a saddle worn freshly paid bunch of low downs who'd been itchin to be scratched, run smack dab into a bunch of fresh hands lookin for one last night on the town before headin out to hack up campfire smoke and trail dust.
And then, there was also Lil.

And who the hell knows where Lil came from or where she aimed to go. It all depended on how much gin she'd pumped as to what story she might tell you.
One time she's a socialite from New York who just grew tired of caviar and Momma's meddling.
Another time she's from Paris goin to visit her wealthy aunt in Salt Lake City, and it didn't seem to matter that she talked like everyone else from St. Louis. The hearer leanin on the bar was always drunker than her, and besides, the stories were good.
If pity was her mood, she became an orphan from Philadelphia on her way to the gold fields in California.
And it didn't matter none if she told three different stories to the same cowpoke in one night.
She was a tall, well formed red head with the prettiest eyes West of the Mississippi, and the cowboy would just lower his head, shake it, and say, "Well, I'll be God damned!" as if there was ever really a choice
Then, and clean as a whistle, as soon as the bewitched fool would take a drink  or look to the piano player smiling back broadly, his watch was gone.
What the hell she ever did with all those watches was anybody's guess, but the guy would wake up in a stooper, stuff his hand in his filthy pocket and mutter, "well I'll be God damned!"

Besides bein a fair pick pocket, Lil was also a skilled horse thief, a decent swindler, and a dang good card cheat. All in all she got by and everyone just sort of let her, cuz life without a watch was a dang sight better than the Rum River without Lil.
But one thing Lil wasn't, was a whore.
Somewhere deep in her thieving heart slept a seed of romance she wouldn't squander on a quick roll
with some two-bit rambler with a whiskeyed tongue and ample purse.
See, Lil didn't really give a mule's fat ass about money, the thieving was done mostly just for fun, somethin to pass the time. And hell, if a cowboy was really attached to a watch or missing trinket, Lil
would even sell it back to him if he took off his hat and asked politely. and usually for not all that much more than he paid for it the first time.
Like I said, Lil wasn't all horseshoes and greased  leather, Lil had a genuine soft spot.
She called it love when it came around and it came around pretty regular.
And it was real, this love, she'd swear to it, and for a spell, so would he.
Seems like it never did last long though and probably just as well.
There was a sayin round town, "Shackin up with Lil?" that sounded just like "Looks like rain."
A nervous grin would cause a head to shake and boots to scrape gravel. "Best sleep with one eye open pardner, and a loaded pistol under the pillow!"
And it wasn't a joke, just part of loving Lil.
Her present love happened to be Grandy, who had been a trail boss out in the Colorado territories and a good one at that. But the trail is long and there ain't much time off between runs.
One time he got the herd up from Texas two days early and somehow his sweet velvet school teacher of a wife didn't smell him coming.
Now Grandy didn't much care for finding the stable kid ass up on Grandy's wife on Grandy's bed, so Grandy up and shot him square in the ass as he was scurrying out the window.
It was a fair shoot and weren't gonna be no trouble over it, but Grandy figured it was time for movin on just the same.
Hard to live in a town when everyone knows the town mucker fucked your wife, so he drifted east and took a buying position with the West Branch Cattle Company.
Hell, he didn'ttt know bout Lil cuz he was so ornery these days that other men steared clear of his trail and besides, he was vulnerable. Some would say, easy pickens.
As for Lil, all she saw was his brown eyes and high dollar horse and it was love at first sight, deja vu style, and things went alright for a spell just as they always do.
Lil was ever present by his side as they strolled through town, smiling and holding hands, and in those days, only a couple watches went missing. (hey! A girls gotta have a hobby)
The Tuesday night poker game grew a little bit fairer without Lil but not nearly as fun and lucky for the saloon, it didn't take long for things to change.
The honeymoon had lost its luster and that top button on lil's dress went MIA as a few more watches got lost.
Grandy woke on a Tuesday night to find Lil sneakin out the window and onto the roof. At first in his half-slumber he had the urge to shoot her in the ass, but then as his head cleared and his sight adjusted, he realized this wasn't Denver and Lil wasn't the sneaky stable boy.
She swore she was just goin out for a smoke and to have a pee off the roof like she did now and again, but she seemed awful done up for such a small venture.
And it didn't help that when she climbed back in, two aces fell out of her dress.
Grandy was a powerful man built like a barrel too full of apples, and his thick expressionless face was the lid that held it all in. If he was suspicious, there was no way to tell. Lil just shrugged, slid out of her dress and climbed back into bed.
Grandy should've noticed the men in town lookin at his left eye to see if it looked more tired than the right one. (everyone knew lil slept on the left side of the bed near the window) And it's hard to say what made Lil such a rascal when it came to men, maybe she just loved loving them too much.

Red Headed Lil and The Rum River Saloon pt 2

And so it was, one night in mid-August a herd pushed to the edge of town just after midnight, and after gettin the cattle settled in, a few thirsty boys made their way to the Rum River Saloon to properly honour the trail.
One of these happened to be Chester Travis, who was as far from being a cowboy as they come, but he had come upon the herd half-way up the Rum and somehow convinced the trail boss of the need of his services. He was a good talker.
It was Thursday night and Lil was sittin in on a few hands while Grandy slept unaware down the street.
Her eyes instinctively turned up from her hand as soon as he walked through the door. He was hard not to notice; he wore a low black hat tipped low over one eye, fancy duds not fit for cowboying, and polished shooters on both hips.
And his boots! They were so polished that light shone off of them like the moon on Lake Shasta.
If Grandy's walk was heads, Chester's walk was tails. Whatever was missing in power was made up for in the glide.
Chester had became Chet on the cattle drive which suited him just fine as it was a made up name anyhow, and if Lil was the queen of shenanigans in Rum River, Chester Chet was the king of trouble everywhere else.
He was a tall fellow with a quarter- moon grin that made a man wanna hide his money and a lady wanna pray harder on Sunday-he just couldn't be overlooked.
Chet got a drink and made his way to the table as though by accident while Lil sized him up without anyone noticing.
Chet had pretty much sized up the entire table in the mirror while orderin his whiskey and had not only noticed Lil's pile but the way she was getting it as well.
Lil now had to be careful as Chet stood and watched cuz she knew he was on to her, and it annoyed the hell out of her and her leg swingin over the other showed it.
Still, she won more than she lost and a couple of drunk, broke cowboys stood and staggered toward the door calling it a night, not botherin to check for their watches.
Lil shuffled the cards slowly as if thinkin up nuclear energy.
Without lookin up she said, "You gonna stand there all night like a little boy who lost his sick dog, or ya gonna sit down, Slick?"
Chet's quarter-moon silently grew teeth and he took a chair.
As she began to deal and again without looking at him, Lil spat out, "You don't look like no cowboy to me."
Chet watched the way her fingers spritzed the cards before picking up his hand and responding..
"And you don't look much look like the law"
Lil tried not to smile but couldn't help herself.
"Fair enough, cowboy."

Red Headed Lil and The Rum River Saloon pt 3

At first they tried to out cheat each other but it was clearly a draw. Then in a simple exchanged glance and shift of the eyes, a truce was drawn which spelled doom for the others at the table, and by three am it was all over.
And there seemed little point in Lil and Chet just playing each other, so they drank, and swapped stories til the only cards not played in this game were the Queen of England and the Duke of Windsor.
It's hard to tell who believed what or anything and in a moment of pause, Lil asked Chet if he knew the time. Chet pulled out his gold pocket watch and told her 4:20.
Lil gave a look of surprise and told Chet she really needed to be going. But before she did, she sat on his lap as she passed his chair, took off his hat and gave him a kiss on the cheek as she smiled and smoothed back his his thick black hair. Chet didn't seem to mind and her perfume lingered as she made her way to the door.
Chet watched her full hips pendulum up the three wooden steps and he thought she was adding a little
kick to it for his benefit.

Chet finished his smoke and looked around the saloon at the half dozen drunks that hadn't completely run out of balance and money.
Then Chet reached into his coat to again check the time but when he pulled the watch out he discovered it wasn't his gold watch he held but another watch made of sterling silver.
Chet smiled then broke out into full laughter as the bartender watched him curiously. Putting the watch back into his coat he stood and walked over to the bartender who was leaning back on a post with his arms crossed in defiance.
"Say, you there, barkeep," Chet paused, rubbed his stubble and squinted his eyes. "that lady I've been playing cards with-"
The bartender grabbed a dirty glass and wiped it on his dirty apron before placing it on the shelf with his back to Chet
"You mean Lil?"
Chet brushed his nose with his finger and his grin faded.
"Yeah, guess I do. You know where she lives?"
The bartender turned and placed his arms spread on the bar.
"Maybe, why you asking?"
Chet sized him up then leaned in close to the bartender's scowl.
"Maybe cuz I want to know."
The bartender seemed unfazed and Chet decided he wasn't worth messing with, so eased off some.
"She left something behind, I just want to return it"
The barkeep countered. "You can leave it with me, I'll see she gets it." But he knew full well Lil never leaves anything behind except the perfume.
Chet smiled easy, "No offense, but I don't know you. I'd like to return it myself."
The bartender looked down, then grinned and nodded towards the door.
"Down the street, oh, bout a quarter mile or so, maybe less. The Miller Hotel, second floor-you can't miss it. big sign out front."
Then after a deliberate pause he added, "But I wouldn't go down there if I were you."
Chet looked to the door then back to the bartender, his look growing curious.
"Oh yeah, and why's that?"
The bartender turned away, wiped his hands on his hips then started stacking glasses.
"Just wouldn't, that's all."
Chet threw some coins on the bar.
"Yeah? Well you're not me, are ya?"
Chet turned and made his way to the swingin doors not giving the barkeep a chance to respond and disappeared into the night
.Two drunk men scurried to the door to see which way he went.
"The damn fools goin down there."
The bartender chuckled then threw up his hands and smiled over his shoulder.
"Can't say I didn't warn him."

Chet lit another smoke then made his way down the dark empty street. Chet knew the feeling of being watched, of eyes on his back but he ignored it. This is the way things went for Chet, just mosey into town for a drink and the next thing you know, somethings happening and it usually wasn't good.
The bartender had been right, it was easy to find, but Chet also remembered the warning and how
Lil had suddenly needed to get on her way.
Chet paused in the street before the sign and the steps leading up. Then he went to the opposite side of the street and lit one more smoke as he leaned against a hitching rail and studied the hotel.
Something told him he should just walk away, go back to his horse and keep moving. He didn't give a shit about the watch as he had won it in a poker game and the one she replaced it with seemed to
work fine. It was her ability to do it that held him there, the style in which she not only took his, but teased him with the silver one. He should've listened to the voice, but that was the trouble-he never did.
He was pretty sure using the door would have much to do with the barkeep's warning, and he noticed the window on the side of the hotel and the overhang below it.
Chet smiled and flicked the smoke away as he pushed himself off the rail.
Lil had made it back into bed without Grandy waking and now she lay in bed listening to him snore as she fondled the gold watch and thought of the man she had taken it from.
Chet's plan was simple, he was going to sneak through the open window, take his watch that he figured he'd find on a dresser, leave the ace of spades, and sneak back out. Just a continuation of the game Lil had begun.
Chet left his boots on the street and made the easy climb on to the roof. he really could have had no way of knowing if this was even her room except once on the overhang, he could smell her perfume.
There were several problems with Chet's plan. Lil was not asleep, the watch was in her hand, and Grandy had taken to keeping a pistol under his pillow.
Lil was no slouch and heard Chet on the roof. She thought of waking Grandy but instead quietly made her way to the window. Just before she got there, Chet's head came through the window and Lil let out a shrill screech.
When Grandy woke, he saw the two figures close together in the shadows and he grabbed his pistol
and headed for the window. Chet had withdrawn at Lil's cry and Grandy pushed Lil aside roughly and
fired blindly into the dark. Considering he saw no target, he didn't do badly hitting Chet in the leg.
But Chet wore the twin pistols and knew how to use them. He fired back before Grandy could move
from where the flash had been. There would be no further shooting.
As Lil lay, looking at the curtains blow in the soft breeze, she listened to the sounds of Chet's breathing beside her. his left eye was open and the pistol beneath his pillow was loaded.

The End

How Deep Ya Mean To Bury Me, Hon?

they say a grave is six feet deep
wonder why that is?

just deep enough to hide the smell?
yet shallow enough to hear your voice?
will the worms crawl in, and
the worms crawl out at six feet?
i fear they will
will i smell the flowers you leave
once a year to die upon my death?

six feet is a fathom
a perfect depth for tears to drown
unless we're talking a Titanic of tears
then fathoms get squared

when i was a boy and you a seed
my mother used to say,
" you diggin to China, Boy?"
and i would wonder,
if i did,
would i fall out when i got there?
land in a tree?
hang by a leaf?

Love, are ya diggin to China?

I want to live

i reach down with cupped hands
large as oak trees upside down, and
dip into the fountain
close my once hopeful eyes
and feel it wash over me
once more

i smooth my hair back
then dive!
submerge
swim
drink til it and i are one

i want to stand on a mountain top
hear the eagle cry
like this!
blaze through the forest
with will covered passion
as a  machete

i want to long
and ache,
but with hope
and the strength of one renewed

there is a wind
blowing from the north,
there always must be
it is not a tidal wave
nor even the crystal
of a maddening brook
but it holds life
and to it i close my eyes
letting it wash me
and in it, an olive branch
too solemn for hands
which i take in my teeth
and fly with, like this!
offering it to you
and you, and you
that we all might live

The Rush

There's that big exam on Monday morning
or the speech on Wednesday night
the first time you meet your girlfriends dad
that job interview a good skyscraper above your head

we've all been there

those butterflies high on LSD
that won't get laid til they get to Winnipeg

these orphans of the heart, fed by the frontal lobe
are blended of our fears and doubts
unavoidable

but this is different
a quaking from without
a trembling that began in a solar storm
and knocked us on our ass without warning

you don't know where it came from
where it's going
or what it wants
but there it is,
and it's real
beyond the taming of buddha
knocking the wind out of your soul

ever had it?
did it frighten you?
it does me
because I seem to be the butterflies in its belly

The Door

I used to watch her
she of the second floor
I, of the third

it was the kind of apartment where if one tenant turned on the water,
the others all knew.
but sounds and numbers were all that were known
as names were secreted behind closed doors
and lowered gazes upon the stairs

first, as the light seeped my room
I would hear the pipes jangle and creak
then the faint echo of a medicine cabinet being plundered
before a door here, a cabinet there
and then the melody of her music would waft up
on the aroma of her coffee
wrapping itself around my bare feet
spiraling up my legs
and taking my loin prisoner without a fight

I would then open my window because I knew she would open hers
and it was funny, the way my mind froze
navigating only to her unseen steps

my feet truly found their rhythm when I would hear the heavy door open and close
and I would glance to the clock in association, knowing her moccasined feet
whispered down the stairs.

in a ritual race my own feet pulled me to my window from where,at the edge of the curtain,
I could watch her emerge onto the sidewalk below.

I would smile as she threw her auburn locks to the wind
and her hands would dip into that corduroy jacket.
she always crossed the street at an angle with nary a glance
as if she knew the world
would respect her passage.

she was going to the river, this I knew
where she would scrabble its vacant banks
speak to the current with her soul
the morning with her eyes
and to her heart, with her thoughts.
and she always retrieved a new treasure for her sill
to remind herself who she was.

this wasn't a lonely walk, it was embryonic
a seed for the evening harvest.

this too I knew, because at night I would quietly ascend those stairs
pause beside her closed door
and listen to the threshing.

one day, no more unique than another, as I descended and she ascended,
her bag of groceries shifted, her leathered foot slipped and her grace failed
-but I caught her, and my catch lingered..
things were exchanged
eyes met
silence considered
and a laugh breezed into a smile

Though no words were spoken that day, when next I paused beside her door
I heard her threshing pause with my steps.

then one evening her door was left open -just a crack
then half way
then all the way

this open door led to a name beyond the number
and a chair at her table where we drank her coffee and shared a story

I remember those days now and where they took me
I remember believing that door knew no limit

I would have been wise to remember the way she crossed the street
for one night as I climbed those stairs,
I found that door closed once again.
I remember the pain of those two voices rising up through the floorboards
taunting my concrete feet and spinning a new beat to an old routine.

I think maybe he was the baker who brought her bread
or perhaps a beggar from the park
but I never really cared to know

my mind now froze only in pale numbness and my curtain stayed closed.

I could've moved
should've moved
I know it now as I knew it then
and maybe I tried but good sense plays a minor role on such a dark stage.

the other day as I reached the second floor, I noticed two things;
the door open a crack
and a man's slippers just inside
I didn't pause
doors say more than we hear

A Tavern In The Woods

is a place that opens its doors
when Vickie decides she's ready
a place with long narrow floorboards
worn grey by the snow of long winters

back near the tiny bathrooms
is a pool table with paper thin felt
torn and cigarette scarred

the roof is shingled
the sign painted
the register antiquated
and no uniformed cuties with name tags

this is a place where widows, divorcees and veterans
stare out the window beyond the pitted gravel lot
to watch the snow fall upon the highway

a tavern in the woods has a table in the corner
where those same five guys have been playing
that same deck of cards since Carter picked his first peanut

there is a battered leather dice box under the bar
that makes up for Vickie's lousy tips
and damp smelly bar rags for the occasional spill

the jukebox doesn't do digital
but knows every George Jones song ever recorded

a tavern in the woods has burgers that taste better
for no good reason
and the best beer signs to be found

there is no happy hour because the beer is only two bucks anyway
and last call is when the stories and keg run out at the same time

a tavern in the woods cannot be built
but planted and grown from a seedling
until it reaches maturity

it is a place where strangers gather to become friends
a refuge
a sanctuary
a home for those in search of a definition

Bus Ride

it seems as close to a stage coach as we can get these days
All aboard! next stop Yuma!

we on the street, look to the faces beyond the glare
they never smile or look down
just out, away and beyond
but (or is it and) it draws us,
takes a little of our soul along
in the wake of that thick black smoke

for a moment we wish to go along,
-climb those stairs
to that grandma in Billings we've only known through stories
or the recruiting office in Yakima, or
maybe even to that friend in New York with the spare room and connections

the girl there, in the back row,
with the spiked hair and black lipstick ran away when fourteen burst the seams,
the young man in the middle aisle spent his summer in Yellowstone
grooming trails
and the old man in the green wool uniform
finally made his platoon's reunion

they all wear an expression bought with a sixty-eight dollar ticket
some find comfort in books
some in ear buds
some in journals
some in quiet contemplation

they'll stop for fuel
and just to stretch their legs, where
a few will smoke in a huddle while
names and smiles might be exchanged
and once in awhile a story told to a crooked grin

then they'll board again as we
in McDonald's, or fueling our cars watch
with curious eyes

they pretty much ignore us,
we're not in the club
-not part of the adventure

but as long as there's Greyhound
there's hope for exploration,
the human spirit,
and a dream left
for those of us that watch

Filter

Filters are important
They purify
And I don't have one

I'm the muddy mississippi
Churning
Topsy-turvy
ass over tea kettle
Pissing off artists
But making the catfish happy

So those in my path
Construct filters
Lest i forget my banks

Some have built them
In series
This for that
-a murderer's row of honeycomb
Til i'm not even a river, but
Merely a trickle
Sad in supress

Others have built dams
You know,
Keep the bastard out all together

But there's this one,
Pretty, sleepy little town
That has laid some stones
And logs across my flow
Earthy, natural, an easy traverse

Here, my catfish pool
My heron fish
And my mud slips through
While my eddies swirl
Her feet
At the edge of the bank

She knows not to drink
Too much of me
Not to belly flop my depths
understanding the danger of my undertow

But she lets me flow
Lets me sweep her feet
And in this
I have found truce in the current
Harmony in my day
Agreement in peace
And acceptance in my imperfection