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