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