Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, August 30, 2010


Somedays, I feel old. Worn out. Faded. Somedays a white flag is all I can do. I wrote this on one of those days.

brick to mortar
straight and true
girth to height
stars racing from my grasp
a moon
that found rest
upon my pillar

argyle socks
and cardigan blue
a wisp, a nod
a point
a place
a power

but rust
and ten dollars worth of time
found weakness
and crinkle

a sway
a lean
a sigh

the old wolf
can’t mask the limp
and the gray rains
upon spent fields
of forgotten prey
and bitches
that yielded to his bite.

a pocketful of youth
in tattered
and a cane
for tomorrow’s

and so it is
and so it goes

no drunken planes
to knock it down
just well placed

by fresh pups
on wild wind

slow motion
the dust must rise
before it can fall
the trails of my time
the tracks of my hope

I’ll gather my bricks
my steel beams
and finger the grafitti
that tarnished
my glory.

I’ll draw it in
hands to lap
pull it in
line upon line
as the moon finds
and the stars
fly free
of threat

no phoenix
no fire
only ashes

what fools
they are
who believe
in time
and bank
the riches
of their blessings.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Fred In The Morning

This was inspired by a conversation I had with my good friend, Annie (she cringes). Fred was mentioned and away went my mind to the possibilities of his real life. My apologies to all who will be offended and to Annie for tagging her.

The broken twisted blinds let the dirty sunlight in once again and his bloody eyes clenched in terror.
Rolling over, he tried to focus as he surveyed the ruins.
There was an empty wine bottle lying prone on the dresser. In the corner, a bottle of Jim Beam balanced itself precariously on the edge of the TV.
On the filthy floor, in between, was a soggy pizza box with a slice turned upside down a few feet away.
Straining to look over to the door, he took note that a slice had been ground into it and now, below, two cockroaches feasted on what remained.
His bed was just a single pushed into the corner under the window overlooking third avenue. The flashing neon didn't effect his sleep and it was a place for the cigarrette smoke to escape.

Someone now layed on the horn on the street below and yelled. He cringed and leaned to the window.
"Hey Dickhead! People live here, ya know!"
He got up to get a smoke and looked back to a bed that hadn't been made in months. Hell, he couldn't even remember ever washing the sheets.

He was naked except for the lazy white-grey briefs that long ago lost their form. He scratched his balls and staggered to the small stove.
"That bitch!"
His smokes were gone.

Reaching under the cabinet he fumbled and found the one he had stashed. It was sticky and he sneered at it.
Closing the white cainet door that hung crookedly before him, he found a message scribbled in lipstick staring back at him.
"fuck you ass hole!"
He gave it the finger and glanced out the window as he lit the cigarrette.
"Shit. Nice ass." he whispered through the first exhale as he grew hard watching a young woman on the sidewalk.
When the phone rang, he turned and stared at it as if asking, "Is that all you got?"
After a dozen rings it gave up.

Walking to the tiny bathroom, he paused to finish off the Beam before it crashed to the floor.
After brushing his teeth and peeing mostly on target, the phone rang again and he interrupted his search for more smokes to answer it.
"Yes, i'm sure that'll be fine, Kids love trains and engineers." then, addin after hanging up the phone, "maybe one will fall on the track. Now THAT'D be a show!"
An hour later, smartly dressed and hair finely combed, fred stepped out onto third and flagged a cab.
The secret life of mr. Rogers

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Stones and Birds

It's funny. Or not so. How the industrial age has made something as beautiful as a killdeer appear foolish while we marvel at the Corvette. Yes! By all means, let's rush and impress and crush and pass by. Birds are only poop to our window and stones an insurance report. I live sixty miles from the Corvette museum. Wish it were farther.

I throw stones
just to.
I skip them
and judge them

but I like stones.

they won’t sell you a car
in crooked haggle
they won’t call you
in the middle of supper
and they can’t pretend
to be anything else.

and they taste good.
I know.

I like killdeer.
I stoop and talk to them
and offer my hand
but they yell
and call me foolish.

they nest in rocks.
right there!
in the middle of parking lots.
in driveways.
in roads.

rocks and eggs
all look alike
in perfect sense.

hide a jelly bean
in a barrel
of jelly beans
safety in the blend.

but a killdeer’s squawking
and feigned
broken wing
cannot detour
the machines of Ford.

nor the mean of
mis-taught children.

so we run them over
and crush them under foot
in a cruel carousel
of manifest destiny

survival of the heartless

I like stones
and I like killdeer
not so sure about Ford, mean children,
or anything else.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Peddler

(more old shit from last year that didn't make the first team)

There are people and occupations that demand respect though why I'll never know. I guess it's them what made the rules.

Then there are the others. Those not regarded or noticed like an old tobacco stain on a grey shirt. You try to rub it out, then you just shrug and ignore it. I've always kinda liked the peddler.

no buckboard or horse
just a crazy ol' cur,
a calico cat,
and a dirty bag
of faded green

he didn’t come in
on the dust of others
but through the bramble
and along telescopic streams
bordering the dreams
of others misfortunes.

a strange loyalty
these three
of no past
nor future

he knows a fiddle
from a farmer who
had need of a mule
and a fiddle
was easier to lead
and nothing to feed

he would trade here,
buy there,
sell as needed
learning the trades
of necessity
along the way
of the way.

a little hard bread,
a little tea,
a little whiskey
some for she

and some for me

he knew cards
and how to win
he knew tricks
and how to entertain children
he knew women
and the ways of their wants

he never feared the night
unless in town
he never felt the heat
unless in town
he never felt hungry
unless in town

yet to the towns
he went.
to buy, to sell
to play
to a necessary gain

the calico would disappear
for days at a time
to collect his scars.
while the dog knew only
his shadow
and the length of his stride.
but the fiddle
contexts them all
and told the land
of their passing
in melodies mostly haunting.

they painted pictures
as they went
pretty pictures
while mapping the land
of empty,

with dreamscapes plenty

the blacksmith
bends the iron,
the clerk
tends the fabric
and the preacher
keeps them honest

the peddler
births a poem

from a heart full of spirit

eyes full of watching

and a lengthening



Friday, August 13, 2010


Where do we search for happiness? In the approval of others? In manuals written from the wrecks upon coral? Is it things? Or others? Or all?
Does it come from without or within? Can happiness be justified of itself regardless of ships tossed in the wake? For some, it's speed. For others, a slow waltz. Some procure while others shed in empty delight. The pond is only so big; perhaps tolerance is necessary.
if I watch a sunrise
from maiden sand
with knees abreast
in doubled rise
would I be one
with the sun?
the day?
or the sand?

can I be one with all
in harmony’s breath
with the burden of jealousy
riding squalls
of parched leather
as it whips the foam
of how dare you?

having known
the peak
of another’s dream
with my flag
waving trespass
in braggadocio,
can my footing
hold it’s place?
or merely know it’s turn?

is the next best thing,
to yesterdays mash
and tomorrow’s fairy tale
on a scarlet coloured

to know your place
and the place
within the space

to siphon your dreams
from the pollutions
of storied blends

and to accept
that no one
can be worst
or best
but simply unique.

maybe, is a
way to happiness

Monday, August 9, 2010


I like the zipper
the slow pull
the quick zip
the sound before
the blossom and bloom

but she had buttons
three silver buttons
they slid slyly
through the slits
like a portent

a good cigarette,
talking cherry smooth,
will smoke your ass
for eight bucks
and tax

and a good beer,
talking ahh slippery sweet barley!
means overtime and cheaper diapers

but cheap beer is
a twist off
and no one bums L & M's
cept bums
so improvise

I've tried
the straight and narrow,
directions, manuals
and bibles
til my eyes bled
goblets of sorrow

I've measured twice
and still cut thrice
and obeyed the laws
to my own destruction
in stubborn strangle

I find now my crooked trips
through life's bramble
are weighed with mercy
cuz my flailings and faults
make you the hero,
or so you believe,
-so be it

I could fish
in rain and sun blister,
I could golf in a hurricane's bluster,
and I could love you
as you want
and think I should

or I can accept that failure
goes down better
with cheap beer and cigarettes
and I'll never be anyone's hero
so I improvise