Shall I at least set my lands in order?
T.S. Eliot - ”The Wasteland”

There are galaxies inside me - so much that thrills, enlightens, devastates, and confounds. I want to probe it more and represent it somehow. That’s what this is, I think. Experience (the soul) is a resin for me, all layered in a hazy goo that I can draw from but not always recognize, dripping into a looping stream that feeds and takes as it flows. 
​

In and Out

Rooms fill for what is not yet obtained
and the people steer their feet
in a flurry of motives.

Then everything empties
to streets and restaurants
other rooms absorb the flow
that spills into fibers
any porous zone.

We can dance in the puddles
or roll our pants to keep them dry.
There's different ways to gain
and to filter
in any place
in any mind.

Filtered

Late winter is on my windshield
the salt dust paints the miles gray.

The wipers clear then streak.

I try to direct my vision
but the smear encloses.
I veer to avoid the splatter
roll windows down.
There is much to purify
and the purest space can still be found
some kind of nirvana
brewed in a pot of salted gray and grime
to be sipped in the haze.

A Roadside Deer

She crouches against the wind chill
seven below
coiled for some desperate act
sniffing for feed
for a herd
on fields sealed with ice.

Her crazed eyes search me as I pass
and poke the beds of all my lonely searches.
A funnel of dust whips up
then subsides as I head home to warmth and food.

Twisted

The wrong joints tense
when one leg walks different.
I know as I hobble across the lot     
and rage at what's out of reach.

I’m shackled to more
and spend my time wriggling.

A light though
a floating illuminated speck
of righteous slaves
and greats that sprang from lines of nobodies.
They live
and may yet pull pins for me.

Next
​
How now shall I plow
with wrinkling skin and furled brow?

I must build the muscle needed
an agile flow as well
to heave unwieldy notions
into lines that are fit to tell.

For the ear and the heart play the greatest parts
in converting words to motion
or potions
for notions worth planting.

Overflow

How can I convey
the black holes and asteroids
the spiraling fires that light
when gas ignites?


Stars are exploding
and their scattered parts collect
in rings they can’t defy
or recognize.


Bike Spray

The train line ends at the sidewalk
only those who travel slow
will have a chance to know
to chase the story
or just imagine all the cargo
and passengers who made or missed their times.

I observe as I pedal past
slush spraying up my back.
The wet meets sweat
that moves through every pore
and carries the stories further
to where the elements and exertion meet
in a cycle of steam and freeze.


Lines and Wires

The kids become deaf to a tone repeated.
Calls to brush and flush
for clean and quiet
delivered with scorn will be reborn
as shrill charges between polls.

Both sides will recall the heat that transferred
and the seared edges
where the wires melted.

Reactor

A steady eye
notes the ridges of a mountain
and can call them by their names.

And hands that grapple with a face
can slap or grip
or slip from any hold.

Feet choose their place upon the scree
and might turn stones
or ankles when reaching.

Can’t be Served

I’ve been out chasing rivers
pushing back brush
and sinking to my knees in mud
to sip the ineffable.

Though I love a drink
the bars leave me thirsty,
and I embrace a crowd
while wringing my hands.
Not so with a stream.
We commune as though
I am a drip of its flow.


Beneath

A turbid stream still flows
with old frogs and tadpoles.
You can catch them
if you dare put a hand in the murk.

Wipe back the smear
from the graffiti you find
and see the designs
that swelled with color before receding
to age in sun and mud.


Complicit

What if we ignore the nudges
to do what we feel?

Our voices pinched and hands pocketed
by what might be.

It can take everything
to conclude.
And hesitations continue
to swallow possibilities.

Lift

I take a broken rod and find a way to catch a fish
extension is my wish
and to go far.

I aim to move
what I am is what I have to prove
the value of my paces.

I sometimes drop what I have found
my boots repeatedly gripping
then leaving the ground.

Magnum
​
I’m feeling like it’s time to release my guts
spill some backed up trapped sentiments and such.
See I’ve been waverin’ in the middle
afraid to touch the griddle
to expose my hands to the spit or the spittle
Sss-ha
if I take what I have whittled
and hold it to the masses in a way that won't belittle.
I’m looking for a way
in a world of pages
to assert my ideas
and write them through the stages
of doubt and scrutiny
uncertainty
of how they’ll touch the world and my identity.
People I see
try to give it all a name
with insufficient claims
evangelize their point of view and lock it down in chains.
But I’m leery of such action
and all the factions
that hold half truths as the basis of their traction.

So what’s my source?

I take my sermons from the rivers
and they deliver
some clarity to help me see that wonder is the giver
of insight, mental might, a way to keep my spirit right
and STRONG
flexed against all positions
and all the mysteries, histories, and traditions.
The people who have and will illuminate these
contribute to my notions with their varieties.

So what’s my course?

I’ve been waiting for my views to grow and fully form
to dig them from the vent-fed hole where they’ve been warmed.
But if I hold my tongue
they may not extend
or be informed by the sources that contend
for position in my mind in my soul in the folds
of every chasm, schism, dogma, doctrine young and old.
I will profess what I believe and not be confined
by false comforts designed to breed one-eyed minds
because it’s more than god’s will
it’s not just how it goes
there’s a catalyst to all we see and know.
And what we can’t explain
we can’t pretend to define
rather seek, feel, reflect, connect, and climb
to a deeper understanding
without reprimanding
anybody with a different view on anything that can’t be proved.
If there’s an argument with no malicious intent
then civil dialogue can yield a mutual ascent
to communal arrangement
no estrangement
from each other or the places where we thrive and suffer.

So this is how I see
how I hope to be
I don’t expect you to follow or agree.
I continue
flawed and motivated
to hone and improve upon what I have stated.

A Pocket Notebook

What might this be?
A slender thought-collector
papyrus prepared
to capture any fleeting notion.
There shall be labor
laid out and documented
and I’ll tend to the tasks I record
but may there be more
exploration of the caverns
some light on the sooty spaces.
I will press all
through the purest filter I can produce
to grow and fertilize.

Snake Defense

Be at ease
when met with venom.
Strikes will be fewer
bites will be light.
It’s only when pressure rises
that the poison gets to the heart.


Punch

It’s easy to be insulated
dreaming in a forest
or a carpeted room
while others build the world around you.

Membranes form around a still life
but any sharpened will
can cut holes and emerge from the gooey plasma
fit to craft or orchestrate.

Late Season

Thankful for a rainy drive
no sharp glares to slice me
and the drought marauders
can burn no orchards.

Daylight Savings

November sunsets can rage
muscled with layers of horizon.
Tiny lines and fissures
blaze quick against the cold
missed by eyes
not set upon the sky.

Establishing

All the energy exists
to reignite or start anew
to dance and touch the forces
in the ages we inhabit.

Moonrise

Waiting for the moon to rise
on a black lake.

The dog sits
tense on the canoe floor.

I’m careful to be calm
as we join the stars
and welcome the red orb to the sky.

Leaving Jackson

Sniffing out poisons
I fix my hair
and button my coat
for the next town.

Cutting

It’s a short walk to the barn
but he sits on the back porch and thinks
of reasons to not cut the grass
because it’s not all yes or no
and what else might be done?
There are ways to act in any day.

What am I trying to show?
he wonders
and who’s watching?
Maybe no one will notice
if the grass grows long.

Me

I’m just a bunch of muscles
swinging on any rope in reach
between winds and curtains
dropping down sometimes
to build and feed.

Between

Pursue the arms of things
the veins and avenues.

Any name or place
is a tower of changes
and one must search to know
what he stands on
then pry into the walls
to connect what is found
with what is known.

The Mother

Twenty-one thousand pounds
dropped from a cloud

to blast what may be radical.

A strategy of strength
flexed through a rumbling Earth.

It was less than nuclear

But what might rise
from those imploded tunnels?

The Pirate and The Polka Dot Queen

The toothy pirate and the polka dot queen
scoffed at the rain this morning.
With loose boots and cold hands
they marched down the muddy trails.

Ahoy they called
or howdy do
to every goose and duck that flew
bending low to watch the streams
that trickle towards the sea.

The In Between Times

20 thousand miles a year
wearing tread to ply my trades.
If I am to be fit for such travel
I must angle for ascent
scan everything
to begin to understand
and ask for a hint
towards connection.


January Ice

I remember winter thaws
and how the puddles froze back over
ice layers shattering under foot.

Cavities exposed
and me catching glimpses
inclined towards destruction.

Suture

Sometimes thick and sometimes wispy
needling the threads of uncommon fibers
makes cryptic creatures grow.

A Bit to Drill

It takes a keen hand
to create a piece of anything.
Tools are ready and can be forged
to carve notches on a pine
or bend metal to a form.

What forts aren’t built
what bikes unrepaired
what art unmade
when hands never turn a screw
or join two planks together?

Would-be workshops
serve as contraption collections
yearning for sawdust and lacquer
while virtual worlds grow
in the rooms around them.

Facing Up

My face is a bumpy field of stubble
beneath a host of acne scars
I cannot conceal
so I’ll accept that you can see me
and seek to reciprocate
if you agree.

I’ll dare to unbutton.
I will not compress my space
or fill it artificially.

I’ll keep a gauge on my intention
and accept the wounds that may come
from exposure.

Rounding Out

I don’t try to be whole
but I want to be bigger
deeper and lighter
to discover what’s in and beyond me.

I keep feeling like I’m about to begin
from points on a circle that can’t complete
because I turn one end outward
and the other one in.

The Family Plot

Grandpa classified every tree
before he bought the land
then sent the timber to the mill.

He taught dad to plow
and they tilled the Michigan dirt
until they went under it.

Now it’s in my name
and the property’s gone wild
shrubs and grass returning.

My kids will have to dig
to find their forefathers
as different forms of consumers
with classifications to become.

Lake County Strip Joint

The place lost its names to prospects
every passing and port
swapped for something more inviting.
Because a river with heads on stakes
lures few fishermen
and Na-Ka-Ti evokes a savage.
Names of white exploiters were preferred
to attract the needed men.
For clear cuts and pits were abundant
in the wake of the busts;
the past had to be hidden
and restored to native ways.

Cloaked

The ego’s a fiend that changes clothes
to fit the visions in our mirrors
demanding gloss and powder.

You may see one
in rare naked moments
and realize
it’s just a fragile beggar
masterfully persuading us
to feed it.


A Michigan Drive

Any passion can be fed
or mended
in 61 million acres of Earth.

Kalamazoo alleys and northern creeks
can scream or whisper.
You don’t know until you walk there.

You will find
everything grows and erodes
and all is rebuilt elsewhere
the city brick to gravel
the river bank to the bed.

Choose to sleep or roam.
The borders are open.


The Things I See

I can’t help but mention
the dead dog rotting by my fishing hole,
the Laotian woman in her Sunday dress
walking through a puddle
or the man with Down Syndrome
dancing in the street.

Because when I feel music
when I put a boot in sludge
or bring a spotted trout to hand
it all runs through me.

I see  a line that connects everything.
We shake, climb, and construct it
as we choose.

Ice on the Ridge

There's April ice on fruit ridge.
Farmers twist in their overalls
beside the clear-glazed boughs
and set the memory of past years
against their investments.

Talk is spreading across the farms.

Men in trucks and gooseneck trailers
roll on washboard gravel
to protect what they can.

Wave

You’ve seen that guy
dancing in the aisle at a concert
a wave of limbs and gyrations
tuned to some higher frequency.

I want to be that guy.
I’ve been him.

Now I’m sitting on a stool
tapping a foot to the jukebox.
I dare not show more
with so much at stake
and sip mild ale on a Sunday.

But I still know how it feels
when the music’s just right
and the elements connect to vectors
that throb.

There’s a band playing later.
I like to think
that I’ll step onto the floor.


Feed

Scrolling through updates
or streaming from feeds,
choice can become reflex.

Accustomed to devices plotting our routes
we think less about direction
acquiescing to the algorithms
of someone or something else.


Evasion

There’s a nest in the attic
a tunneled mass of pulp
with territorial fiends inside.
I've watched them swarm for weeks.

Fresh welts on me
and liable to more than myself
for allowing this to grow.

I’ll go in before first light
to spray my defenses
then exit quick
and put the cover back.


Cryptic

Up at midnight
searching through words with unknown origins.
Prod is one
"to poke or rouse".
I consider my drive
and the depth of my pressure.

Dodge is another
"to elude or shift".
I wonder about all that I avoid
if my only choices are pursuit
or escape
and if I should try to find out.


Returning Current

​The pelicans feast and lizards dream
in the breezy intracoastal.
Inlets feed and eat the ocean
the manatee aside the yacht.

Spend a tidal cycle there
feel and know
the power of our orbs
and all that they command.

Set a tune to the rhythm,
of elemental ways.
Shuffle possibilities
in the salty air.


Late Tea

Beneath the desk light
I press the undesirable
notions and emotions
squeeze through the valves
gauges soar.

Under fluorescent
the grime shows more.
Scrape a little
take some tea.
Rub the edges
avoid the smear.


Capsule

Let me dwell
in a mesh of fiddle and pedal steel
a strong drink and good friends
or books
a breeze
sip, laugh, ponder, dream.

Then slow breath
a lover’s touch
easy sleep.

January Fishing

An ice-lined bank
break a sheet to enter
a slow, cold seizing.

Steps across the winter current
for meditations to begin
cast, mend, drift
retrieve
feeding lines
to every seam and run.

Wade downstream
repeat the rituals
all depths
and back to the shore.

A moment yet
for stillness
and the river’s flow.

Then steps back through the icy edge.


Contact

I pedal through my neighborhood
observing the conditions
of plants and road signs
joggers and lawn chair driveway dwellers.

There are truths
in every mowed lawn
every calorie burned and beer cracked.
Burdens too.

I consider origins
and keep loose reins on destinations
seeking enhancement
and transport
self-propelled.


The B Trip

I reset the ticker
a fresh set of zeroes.
357 miles mapped with scrolls of thoughts
half-captured on notepads.

Now to more composing
knee on the wheel
ears to the frequencies
eyes shifting to absorb.
Arm content to hang out the window
wind mixes with stereo
letting all that moves or stays
mix and grow
on imperceptible receptors.

I sort and blend the elements
while I move.


The Eve of Verano

I take an unmarked trail to initiate
an investigation of my state.
I stomp and look and wonder
at the green valley floor
and the Solstice sun
hoping for a beach
where I don't have to run.

A man I am
with faith and doubt
pressed and vexed but able
to walk into the woods
and seek the sea where I'll strip down
to swim and scream
emerging
with a vigorous sense of clean.

Then up the dune and to my track
with an altar to all that is holy
at my back.


Dream Routine

He pounds the tray
in the morning kitchen.
I fetch coffee grounds and formula.

Drinks mixed
we swap exclamations between sips
and daydream
about the toys and rivers out of reach.

Longings shared
we clean our faces
content for now
to laugh at the dog
running in his sleep.


Winter Dwellings

The radar streams blue
snow bands forming
another cycle of come and go.
I gather and scrape each time
to clear paths
and plan grandly between them.

Notions in December nights,
shine with a new year's promise
and obligation waits to smear them.

A call for alterations
to fit the details with the dependents
then to the forge
the drawing board
the kitchen table
to craft what is to come.

While upstairs the baby rustles
and turns with young dreams.


Streaming

I ramble in moods
and find use for my hands
in miles of intersections
and wild, shifting lands

I reflect-
quiet and lean.                         
I thread my thoughts carefully            
and sharpen my dream
to be as strong as the spaces I inhabit
to match the energy of the sea
to somehow discover and incorporate
all that is in
and beyond me.


Nate Luna's Drive Home

A death bird is never full
and swipes with apathetic claws.
A gnash, a gash
black feathers in the blood-
more at the feet of survivors
shuffling aside the grave.

Parlors and bars
offer balms for the scars
and words never heard by the departed.

Then the rooms empty
except for the most attached
who gather plumes
for an arrow, a fan,
a wing.

Summer Limbs

Severed and cauterized
frames without sleeves
sealed and corrupted
the soul amputees.

Confined to the walls
of hollow spaces
driven by illusions
blanks behind faces.

Absent from sanctuaries
truth becomes ghost
that cries and circles
round its former host.

Press an ear to the curtains
heed the beat below
open to the core of things
eat, dig, and grow.


The Anywhere Plant

They built the mounds in '58
to block the plant from view,
grassy berms concealing all but smokestacks.
I cover my scars when I drive by
and wonder at the nature preserve
inside the barbed-wire fence.
I won't let you inside my ugliness either
and will plant gardens around it.
Pardon the protrusions
poking through.


A Night in the Nursery

He sleeps in airplane pajamas
arms waving in the crib
riding roller coaster clouds
all smiles and wonder.
Cupcakes, double-fisted
consumed in messy ecstasy
as he parades
to the curious sounds of his universe
and fades back to bed
where he has transformed the room
with tiny breaths that rise
to sacred spaces.


December Edges

Frost has started
the hues are faded now
I breathe and savor cold
on uncontested paths.

Winter suits my wandering
in between the torrents
a softer tread
a crisper vision
my howls travel farther.

What should I gather? 
Give me dry sticks and matches
I'll suffer nights
beside a crackle of embers
to wake with passions intact
with boots that need thawing.


The Amplifiers

I can't be your only easy chair
or your pincushion.
I need to glide sometimes
I will carry when I can.

See me when my clothes are dry
Soaked threads cannot absorb.

Watch when I move at night
and yell if you see me
smothering my opposers.  


A Different Drought

My canoe looks thirsty
the grass is straw under my feet.
I’d love a sprinkler, somewhere,
irrigation preferred.
I keep crops, just alive
with irregular attention.

I’ll take my once-familiar paddle
to the dusty creeks.


Turnover

Spark a light, sight                       
is needed in the dark.
Lightning has struck,
here I wait…
for the thunder.
The waves reel me in
then drag me
under.

Through refracted waters I see
the moon, a clouded, dreamy glow
that pours on my skin.

I start to fade, slow,
as new times begin.


Brevity

Set high on a wheeled throne
he pedals circles in the parking lot light
of 3am.
His grey beard drips with a sweat
that drops below his laughter,
cheers sound through raspy lungs.
Like a king he rides,
champion of the street lamps,
spinning victory laps on tired tread,
no thoughts of tomorrow’s lost sensations,
winning races in his head.


Lounge Lover

I started to love
when she wrapped her lips round that cigarette
and drew a furnace into her lungs.
Something about that heat
and the casual passion with which she exhaled
paralyzed me in attraction.
I lingered in her smoke,
savoring the breath that remained.
But she smothered it in the tray
and walked, at just the right pace,
out the door,
with wisps of the haze,
my newly formed dreams,
streaking at her side.


J.O.U.R.N.A.L.

Just a pen and paper
Open for thoughts and revelations; the
Undoing of tangled mental states. It’s a
Restatement of events, days, and moments.
No, it’s the clarification of all that;
Always ready to unveil that which is
Lost or Hidden in the tunnels of our lives.


Road Songs

From scattered plots the road sprawls out
to meet its strident passengers.
They come together under moons and mountains
and they disperse
to drift as they please,
leaving shared songs behind.

In time those cerebral notes play out
on the sub-conscious fields of distance,
floating in uneven forms,
above mountains, moons, and forces
to settle on the varied paths
of separate wanderers.


The Forgotten World

Arid lines of pasture
exhale vapor on the porous green.
And it rests in sprawling quarters
for seekers to find and breathe
in the eaves of silent hillsides.


Up and Down

Only faint noise in the late-night chill.
At 4 am, the streets are still.
But lucidity hangs and resonates
on the snowy sills of window slates.      
The houses shed a steady glow
that reaches on the shifting snow
and the cold ones walking by are warmed
by the stretching light that forms.
Their shadows reach and enlarge
to new lengths with their forward charge.
But passing of the luminous bend,
causes them to shrink again.
For between the shine of cheery homes,
darkness relapses for those that roam,
and the flaring smolders down to soot
hope continues on by foot.


Beach Tones

The wound up spirals of my hair
unfurl in wind and open air,
and my scattered mind tones slowly down
as the strain of days removes its gown.
The fitted forms loosen at the seams
in the presence of moon beams,
and my braided thoughts sink with the stones
amid the waves' rhythmic, solemn tones.


Emmet St.

The dust flies on Emmet St.
and construction has begun
to pave its imperfections.

The old road is no more,
just the names of past tenants stay
in the grains of pummeled city dirt.
Their living partners can only go
and wonder at the names they've known.
The love that was only half-grown
is buried somewhere in that sand.
 
And if you walk the sidewalk way
you may hear echoes of their groans
vaguely moaning in the stones,
but their passions will stay below
undergound and settling slow.


Face Down

Raindrops in puddles
the rippling capabilities
of water.


Below Cover

The night sky dwarfs me
with rumbles and wind.
And though rage thrives
in the trees above my quarters,
I remain tranquil in the dark.


Giving Way

Steam columns funnel upward
from rising smoke stacks at night
while I maneuver passages on the waterfront.
We correspond in a subtle way,
all calm under the sky.
They climb and dissipate
into vaporous forms.
I just pedal along
reveling in the contrast
of lake and coal and stars,
trying to weave them into coherence
and finding a peace amid their scars.


Discovery
 
I found the world and its cages
on a trip through the newspaper pages.
The columns inked the substance
of us and our circumstance.
Through reports of tangled life
blasted homes, ethnic strife
the lines revealed the endless need
of humans to seek and to proceed,
and how that was all abated
by powers natural and created.
The spirits of all faded to decline
in the printed words of reported time.
 
My eyes turned cloudy.
 
And work continues for ends unknown
in a murkiness not fully grown; 
an estranged world
where leaders lie and citizens cry
building new and different cages.


5.16.4 and moving

The pointed break is sounding;
more sirens than songs
in these darkening airs.
Our failures stream wild
behind the fronts of flawlessness.
They drop where we do
and cannot be hidden;
their ripples spreading
as we move.

So it goes...
We mingle with darkness
and do our dances on its circles.

Now the edges tear farther
towards the beating core,
ripping new passages.


The Night After Hours

Alone in the late hours he establishes the mood:
A cold beer and Miles Davis
to settle the unfinished score
of the evening.
The movements collect in reflections
of the night’s diminuendo
that now clashes in crescendo,
and jam the pieces at the bridge.

And so the fragments compile
as stray notes of obscurity,
leaving songs incomplete
and dissonant in his sleep.


Rhymes for Minds (for my students)

 School bells are ringin but outside the thugs are singin
about their high time reelin and the stuff they’ve been stealin.
The world keeps turning and creating some more
while these rappers keep shoppin at the same old store
of worn out rhymes and glorified crimes
shutting out the other issues that are real in our times.
 
    We need rhymes for minds, rhymes for minds,
    to feed us through this overdone bump and grind
 
The blinders keep blocking their sight from the weight
of the meaning and immediacy of our current state.
Their songs project a culture to the youngest of ears
who form the same old image as they grow in their years.
All this we let slide and say it’s just how it goes
but it’s reproducing peace-hating gangsters and hoes.
 
Yes, it’s very real, you can see it in the street;
twelve year olds thugged out and rapping to the beats
of money and sex and party-pill poppin,
and there’s no indication of this behavior stoppin.
So we got this population all running around
with skewed concepts of love and hearing nothing profound
from these million dollar rappers talkin’ bout all their thrills,
the potential of the consequences blends with the shrills
of dark, ghetto nights and alleyway fights
spreading out to everywhere and blocking the light.
 
    (chorus)
 
Now it’s clear to see that what we need
is for thinkers to gather together and breed,
and put some depth of insight in the music we’re making
to replace all the frivolous fluff and the faking;
Give us insight and unique creations
instead of sex, fatty blunts, and drunken gyrations.
Then maybe we’ll attain some more brawn in the brains
of our sagging society’s intellectual lanes.
Stronger rhymes for stronger minds is my plea
so people’ll be more than a bum or a g
    

Wet Cold

Hands go blue in the damp afternoon
when drizzle covers all with cold fingers:
layers of skin
turn to sheets of flesh,
stiffening
like the leafless branches
dangling in the cold clutches
of a hardening earth.


Altered

Ruptured-
my sense of certainty
now astray and hard to gather
clouded by the dust of factory lines
in conflict like my mind
victims of the clashing
that’s smashing around.

I’m waist deep in the swamp
and far from shore.  


Bellowing June

Wheeling out the trash
in the thick of humid night
to air a pensive mind.

Broken egg shells
and shattered aspirations
move down the driveway as one
under a slivered moon
red
and hanging in the haze.


My Side

Come to me in ragged nights
of tent-soaked dreams and rejection
by sleep and women alike.
Visit my frustration in days
of freedom lost and inspection
of the battered places in my ways.
You’ll see what I carry;
my sources of strength
the length of my rope,
and how I tie it around me.
The lines that I’ve run
make me wise to the traps
and I keep on going knowing
that experience overlaps.


Casual-aility

I loved her once or twice,
my casual girl,
but she didn't speak much.
We share in distance
and hazy bar-room encounters,
weaving past questions
to commit acts beyond our knowledge
of each other.

Should we abort what we created
or allow something potentially ugly
to grow?
The answers come slowly
in labored words and postures
that bend and turn
towards another half-felt night.

​
Coming Down

I find my friends
with heads in bottles and blow,
their faces smeared through tainted glass.
I hide my eyes from their desperation
and speak into the echoing spaces
that they have yet to fill.
I share what I can
and maybe help to clarify the blur
that has blotted out the life in them.
Whatever the effect
we all continue to walk
some destined to collapse
some destined to relapse
and some bound for expansion.

Unnoticed (Sept. 05)
I pedal through the rain
on a course to enliven the lull in me.
I ride past the gaping faces and wet spaces
and return to my cellar home
alone.
My talk flows through a ball point,
my conversation’s in my head.
All my adventures go unknown,
as do my affections,
my perceptions,
the ideas that I hone.

In a basement sanctuary
I explore these thoughts and more
feeling dislocated,
isolated,
but cultivating my inner acreage
and moving closer,
perhaps too much so,
to my core.

Dejection (Sept. 05)

I’m too abused for use,
my movements mean little to me now
and I travel in silence.

Nobody sees me.

All I see are feet following each other
on pavement worn with use;
the only object I can relate to.

A victim of myself?
or of things forced onto me?
I seek survival in any form.

I’m too abused for truce.
I will find avenues for my life
and direct my angst there.
I will strike back blindly
at my oppression.

Old Timer (Sept. 05)

There’s a rusted shopping cart at the water tower turnaround,
it’s bent and old and broken, rusting on the ground.
I don’t know what it’s there for, but the wreckage captures me.
It tells me legends of its downfall and the people who pushed it formerly:
the crowded market aisles, the cracked and flagrant streets,
and desperate, lonely vagabonds filling up with scrap heaps.
    And though its frame is cracked and ugly
    it continues to deliver
    and I absorb what it provides
    while its broken metal quivers.      

I know I’ll be broken someday, incapable of cure,
seeking ways to spread and to endure.
Then when I’m gray and old and nodding by the fire
I’ll fill someone else with knowledge, love, and desire.
    For my frame will crack and bleed
    But my soul will still provide
    And perhaps somebody will receive me
    when death and I collide.

Driven (Oct. 05)
The Car ignites at 7
and exhaust hangs like curtains over the house
that pushed him angrily out the door.
With smoke falling, mom calling, car almost stalling     
he rolls onto the street.
An inflamed brain battles the morning ritual
and sends its heat to flush
a cold and empty frame.
With gas gauge dropping, traffic stopping, fuses popping
a bullet is discharged.

The shocked observers speculate
as medics zip the body bag
what could have caused the blood-stained window?
With children crying, mothers sighing, complications multiplying,
the ambulance moves along.

Real Pursuit (Dec. 05)
Think of the energy exerted
for designer dresses and manicured bests
and for ornaments of all varieties;
the time consumed pursuing remedies
to quick-fix persistent insecurities.
A double latte boosting motivation
to find those pricey two-pieces for vacation.

Then think of the effort invested in these lines,
brief moments of contemplation
thoughts carried to emancipation
through a half-planned design.
And though I’ll lose the power to declare
the message will survive somewhere,
long after the fake fur of image has gone bare;
and maybe this pursuit of meaning will restore
some soul to our state of frivolous affairs.

But that is wishful thinking,
who’s really going to listen to this,
some bickering about people and superficiality,
a call to put substance into reality?
especially from a middle-class whitey,
moderately liberal and increasingly feisty,
Well, you’re listening now
perhaps questioning your perception,
asking if you’ve been a victim of deception.
And that’s the impact I intend
to dig into your awareness and make it bend,
give you the fire and let you tend.

But careful with the flames
you’re bound to burn if too hot in your claims
and you won’t be felt if you’re too tame.
So find the medium heat
and plant your voice where caution and passion meet.
You will express, impress, contest, and probably best
the bad that plagues the chronically pressed.
Engage in potentiality
measured and free.

Why Crazy? (Jan. 06)
Inside the din of daily stir
frantic ones mingle with the whirl
of vicious flats
and deprived habitats
to attempt tranquility.
But all is spun, filtered through uncertainty
and released into distortion
where little is known and all is despised.
This is where the spawn of derangement lies,
expanding in angry quarters
to unhinge concealed aberrations,
abominations leak into streets
to scratch at the flesh of security.
For nothing is safe
around the volatile fan of madness
that spins erratic winds
through every vulnerability
in every widening crack
growing and planting.

Somnolence (Jan. 06)
I like to sleep in my musk
the air moistening below the covers.
For that is when I dream best,
of temperate jungle thickets
and the sheen of tribal female skin.
It rubs over me
and I shiver through my slumber
in an ecstasy of rumbling.
And I cry
for the dripping leaves that rain on me
in the luscious dome of dreams
because their liquid veins
will shrivel and fade in my consciousness
and I will wake to my odor.

Continuance (2000?)
Through autumn days a summer recedes
in golden curtains falling slow.
Earth’s receiving floor thus gathers
a warming blanket, prompting snores
from running streams and warm sun beams,
whose breath will cease in whitened peace;

until a warmth comes round in turn,
revealing dirt, enduring and strong,
and as the yields of the ground return      
the wakened world continues along.

Car Driven Blues (1999)
Dreamy days drift slow
across wide, blue blankets of sky;
forming quietly into view.
They float on in aimless stretches
above the hustle.

I prefer roaming free
in thoughts,
lying loosely,
among days of dreams flying.

All That I Can Get  (March 06)
The light from my monitor
is flashing on the wall
projecting my shifting silhouette
into the darkness of the hall.

It’s another late night at the virtual station
and I’m making myself into my own creation.

I post pictures of me dancing,
a smooth, Guatemalan hombre,
in attempts to find romancing
from others on the fray.
In truth I’m white and unshaven
crumbs line my sweat-filled fat rolls.
This scattered desk is my haven
and the quarters of crusted spaghetti bowls.

But on the screen I harvest fruit
under Central American sun
to earn my dances in the chat-rooms
where all my women are won.
All I get are half-felt phrases
on lines that disappear.

That’s as far as I can get.

So I take in all I can
as the pages come and go
and tomorrow I’ll be a tribesman
or a chiseled, Russian gigolo.

Visions of Katie

She drives up for a coffee
on the morning-cold seat
to start a weary exodus in
whatever elements she meets.

And it’s just like the morning
to resist the movements that she makes
but she pushes past obstruction
with the momentum she creates.

She arrives with all the hope she has
for the battles to be fought
and it’s these visions of Katie Anne
that dominate my thoughts.

In the busying corridor
her heels click past the masses
a source of hope and joy
for the faces that she passes.

And when the flood of children come
she takes them in her care
to attempt to shape their undrawn lives
and be the oxygen in their air.

All this she accomplishes
under questioning eyes
while my visions of Katie Anne
continue to multiply.

Returning late she holds herself
and walks the steps up to her home
to the stillness of her living room
and the softness of its tones.

Then I think she rests in graceful pose
as the daytime light goes down
then continues the day’s events
preparing for another round.

And I wonder if she even knows
about the breadth of her influence
and that the power of her massive soul
caused my visions to commence.
    
And as I make my way to her
she is peacefully asleep
and I gather one more vision,
for the collection that I keep.

Regularity (April 06)
The gutters have been flushed
by the melting of the snow
their liquid trickles onto grass
that winter changed to yellow.

And the neighbors are emerging
from the confines of their quarters
springing from seclusion
to refurbish their borders.

Old men rake the sediment
in faded, checkered shirts
to remove the crust of last year’s hardenings
and the layers of its dirt.

And their women rake behind them
making piles as they go
in the drudgeries of recovery,
an endless one-paddled row.

And inside the painted fences
dependency entails
a need for settled patterns,
redundancy prevails.

But comfort is gathered
on repetition’s runways
where the pavement’s smooth and free of curves
and traveled everyday.

For the ordinary citizens
like to walk on steady ground
thinking not of what they’re missing
but of the ease that they have found.

So they replant their annuals
and their cherished garden beans
to focus on the maintenance of normalcy
turning yellowed grass to green.

Memo to Sunday Night (April 06)
Every time you come around
you inject me with your darkness,
and your bleak, heavy sound
adds annoyance to my stress.

Your ugliness is maddening
it muffles all I say.
My words get tangled in your netting
you turn optimism to dismay.

Though I know when you will come
I can’t avoid your pestilence.
I’m inflicted by your endless hum,
you make my innards clench.

But I’ll continue to combat you
with the knowledge I possess
for you will pass as you always do
and I’ll be able to progress.

So as I struggle in your throes
I will not fear your oppression.
I’ll thwart the lashes you pose
and continue my procession.

Restraint   (May 06)
I cannot find release
from the mudslide of duty.
I answer to those ruling over me
they dictate how I go.

But my visions take me elsewhere
to morning trails in mountains,
to streams whose running strips me
of all that shouldn’t be.
I stand with my boots in the current
and the forces push upon my feet.

I find those spaces
in the bleakness of compulsion
and project them on my mental frames
to feel
and feel                
and feel.

Then it’s back to back and forth
bouncing off the same worn walls
that stuff me in submission
and its cramped uneasy stalls.

Soiled  (May 06)
Hapless faces look past reflections
in the cylinders of their laundry.
They view the churning machines and magazines
in their worst clothes
and smell detergent work its way through blue jeans.
In plastic seats
they hide from deterioration
amidst the hum and tumble

The dryer load will be doubled
to save some quarters for a fix-
some cigarettes, a six-pack
a deep-fried salty snack.
It will sustain them
through what waits beyond the doors-
a late bill, a drunken spouse,
the spoiled boards of a rotting house.

Then they’ll take their apparel half damp
and carry it beneath the fluorescent lamps
to head back to lives
however mean
content to know that at least tomorrow
their best clothes will be clean.

A Riverside Balcony  (May 06)
Nothing stirs me this evening
I will not feel tonight.
my muses all are hiding
beneath the streaks of May’s twilight.

And though I hear the voices
of ladies down below
I’m not taken by their chiming
or the light on the water’s flow.

It seems too usual
I’ve sensed it all before
and something in me beckons
for more, for more, for more.

So I scribble notes on napkins
and toss them to the girls
that drink beneath my perch
in summer dresses and pearls.

But they don’t read, they only shriek
at my perceived cruelty
while I stay sullen in my seat
under the shadow of a canopy

until the waiter swiftly comes
to escort me to the door
and shoves me towards busy streets
stumbling into its roar.

Coming Back (May 06)
Through the flashes
of rain and clotting air
I speed with window down
immersed in solemn trembling.

Then wrapped in wetness
I grip my skin
and let the rain drops pelt me
to let their madness in.

It’s my memorial
to recognize and symbolize
that which has died in
and around me.

June Drive (June 06)
I had to flee monotony
so I drove away from the normal scenes
far from thankless punch-card clocks
and meaningless mutterings-
“take care now” and “how are you?”
replaced by mile marker signs
and the wind from my window passing through.
Now I contemplate destinations
as I pass the city lines
deciding that the rural ways
will lead me furthest from my confines.
And my hair will be disheveled
I will not be neat.
I shall walk through country grocery stores
with dirt on my bare feet.
And I will feed on calm and solitude
as I cross the roads and trails
a part of every mile I make
entrenched in all that they entail.
Then at night I’ll rest alone
in the spaces I’ll have found
immersed in all of evening’s murmurs
covered by the dew and the darkness
spread out upon the ground.

Sick St. (June 06)
My street is a strip of instability
I hear gun shots when I sleep
and angry shouts from nearby residents
pierce my comfort frequently.
But I walk outside to face them,
my steps resisting fear,
and greet their glances when they come near.
“It’s my home too!”
I want to say
though I’m not particularly proud-
the overgrown grass is thick with trash
and houses look like alcoholics
sick with decay and broken skin.
I witness the people of these abodes
walking with their frustration in show
masked by bottles and violence and blow.
That is the cycle I see
and it springs from them as aggression towards me
just a temporary member of this so-called community.
I’m beginning to understand why I got jumped
left to bleed down to my empty pockets.
They got what I showed or flaunted
what they needed or wanted
and I learned to move on.

Tragedy (July ’06)
I got some bad news from my doctor today
he said my heart is weak and I’m overweight.
That shocked my mom ‘cause I’m only eight.
The doctor continued with much more to say.
He suggested running and foreign things like fruit.
I balked and said the cherry filling in my donuts would do.
I exclaimed proudly that I had just eaten two.
He frowned and put his hands on his doctor’s suit.
“Tell me son, how do you typically spend your time?”
I said, “I get winded easily and my weight slows me down,
I’m 4’6” and 200 lbs, it’s hard to get around.
So I’m a Playstation prodigy,
game levels are the only things I climb.
Sometimes I walk outside and try to play
but the kids call me jelly roll and laugh at my face
so I shuffle back to my bedroom space.
I wouldn’t be good at their games anyway.
Instead I journey to the cupboard
and load as many snacks as my arms can hold
then I devour them while counting my fat folds.

“Oh,” the doctor murmured with a hand on his cheek.
“Maybe you can find some ways to work up towards activity.
Here are some pills to reduce weight and self-pity.”
I took some, but I still feel weak.

Repeat Offense (July 06)
Somewhere a well-dressed official
has gained passage for construction
and walks with craned neck on soiled streets
to picture the incoming steel.

The site will be cleared of residents
eminent domain claimed for economic gain
and old structures will be removed
to prepare the transformation.

As wrecking balls smash their might in the masonry
evacuees will depart
in tightly packed moving vans
to move towards unwanted territory.

And somewhere else a dusty Chippewa
has given up his ghost dance
and walks with limp neck on cracked plains
in failed resurrection.

A Few Tests
Lead blanket lullabies play on the speakers
while technicians flash x-rays
into my weighted chest.
I hear white coats shuffling
while I fight sleep in the sterilized room.
But I doze and they diagnose
the flaws in my cavities.
And I drift to dream of my mother’s house
where my old clothes rot in musty corners.
I see her bending to wash them
my mud-soaked socks and faded corduroys
together on the chilled and unfinished floor.
Was it my mom, or that dingy basement
that gave me my malignancies?
Or was it something else…
Too much mozzarella
rotting on my cells?
The coal plant’s particulates
invading my lungs?
Something penetrated somewhere
and now the tumors grow.
They’re inching up my organ walls.
I won’t wake before the flat line
and the calls will go out.
I will pass and they might mourn.
Then my clothes will be removed.

But not yet

The fuzzy lights are coming back
blue masks and stethoscopes
low voices mumbling over machinery noise
I’m awake
and they’re telling me I can go.

Passage (Aug. 06)
Quiet and wide-eyed in my aging sedan
I listen to frayed straps slap
the corroded surface above me
as we spread the midnight fog with our speed.
The white wraps round my possessions
a misshapen bundle on my rooftop
that rattles together in the wet air.

If I pass you on the roadside
you will smell my cigarette
and see its ember’s fiery orange
I will exhale out the cracked window
as I accelerate,
unaware of your presence
leaving a permanent mark
on your memory.

Black Grandpa (Oct. 06)
Grandpa’s sitting at the window
watching the wind rip the last of the leaves
from the trees.
And just the thought of the chill
makes his overworked hands ache.
No money for Florida living.
He will not strut beneath the palm trees
in his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt
or drive his golf cart to the course.
No, the late-year Michigan grey
has replaced the hopes of southern sunshine.
So he meanders to the basement
and takes a few weak swings with his nine iron
before jamming it back into the bag,
ready for dust and loneliness.
Then, dropping onto the couch cushions
my grandpa
accustomed to dealing with disappointment
settles for one of 100 winter naps.  

Grocery Store Enlightenment (Nov. 06)

I lean on my cart in the grocery line
with a dull gaze that displays
the numb sensation in my mind.
Waiting for movement
I stare at the magazines
and suppress the urge to curse
over incessant beeping and ruffling packages
In aisle 14
a woman wants double bags for beans
while yapping on her cell phone.
“I think I’d drop her eggs,” I mumble.

The hectic rush is everywhere
workers racing to stock their cases
shoppers darting through
with anxious creases in their faces
and parents pulling screaming kids back into their places.

I’m a victim too
hurried by my plans and promises
and each time careless cart-pushers get in my way
I have thoughts of disabling them
with a thrusting of my grocery tank.
And now the silver headed lady in my line
is on her second check-writing attempt.
I grip the handle and look across the aisles:
everyone is peeved,
angst on all the faces
and impatience sings through the candy-lined lanes.
I loosen my grip
then chuckle in front of the tabloid section
because I realize this misery is self-induced
and it’s my turn to check out.

Reparations  (Dec. 06)
A thousand thoughts
in a space meant for ten
jam, jumble and contend
for my overwhelmed attention.
Matters financial, circumstantial, often substantial
fight for the focus of my mind.
Then frustrated and inundated
confusion traps me in its bind.
And I track those muddy footprints
over everything I do-
my conversations, contemplations
my work, my inspirations
are clouded with a mixed-up residue
that I try without success to subdue.
And it’s brief cleansing like this
that clears the foggy mirror in me
and allows for glimpses
into the sources of  perplexity.
And I can sift through the sediment
to locate and replace
the rotten, clogging, soggy elements
that burden my space.
The process is my savior
making room in my overcrowded mental store
so I can continue with some clarity
and room for something more.

Together  (Jan. 07)
My fractured pupils broke me today
with their splintered ways of being
I slump in my chair
under unwashed whiteboards.
Look at their remnants:
paper and wrinkled wrappers on the floor.
Did they even try to wear the clothes I prepared?
It seems they see my slings as shotguns
ready to shoot them down like current
and former forces in their lives.
I stand
to erase the marks of the day,
my words once again wiped away.
I think I give them hope at least.
All this is heavy on me as I shuffle towards the door
to turn the light switch down
and walk over black-streaked prints
they left on the hallway floor.
___________________________________

Another Round (Jan. 07)
Left to dangle in postponement
I wait for dragging bars to fill on screen-
the tension pulsing in my fingers
but I hold no real power
A machine dictates my performance.
The keys I compress merely suggest
my intentions to some mysterious brain
and it may not read me clearly.
My trust lies in motors and megabytes
though I know them not
they seem to detest my commands
and show it through rejection.
Something unnatural in this exchange-
tools too advanced for users
the masses ripe for manipulation,
their information and supervision
roaming unseen in circuits and satellites.
And I continue using
craving the convenience
overlooking risks
resembling more and more
the machines that I use.

Lively Mind (Jan 07)
Motor brain, motor brain, trying to slow the train
using pages as my sponges to soak up and contain
these mental messages speeding by my synapses-
they leave before inspection and the thought process collapses
preventing sleep early on a winter Sunday
too many train cars, causing dismay.
I need a new conductor, some hired hands as well
to check out all compartments where these rapid movers dwell.

Unwrapped (Feb. 07)
Enclosed by a blizzard
the winter-shaped hours proceed
and stillness mostly dominates.
The quiet moments seem severe
with snow drifted to the ledge
of wind-driven window pains
so much time to ponder
to wonder and dream and regret
for the mind to manipulate
all that’s rummaging in the head.

It stirs craziness
drives to excess or depravation
and drops off in frustration.
Reading turns to fidgeting,
chores to demolition.
Hair is pulled, temper tested
and everything looks like a barricade.

Until the break!
out through the snow-pinched door
and into the frozen landscape
stumbling, slipping, away from imprisonment.
Then in stopping
the quiet comes back
but not the crazy thoughts
just air and snow and space
then breath

release.

On Speaking (Feb. 07)
A graded voice
delivers thoughts to anxious ears
segments of a whirling mind
transferred and organized to fill
the judgments of a crowd.
The voice trembles through static
that vibrates in the theatre,
every sound wave a ripple
spreading differently on everyone
each with expectations
all with circumstances
looking for enhancement
or finding disenchantment,
everything in the language of their orator;
stimulation any way.
And when the house lights revive
the shuffling continues
feet, talk, thought
out to different atmospheres
with new or tested perspectives.

So much to deal with
so many entries and exits
and mysterious entities
dropping and rising, dropping and rising
dampening sensations
lessening elasticity
of the mind
whatever it was.
It’s changed now
more warped
more worn
but less stained.
you always lose something in purification.
Some kill or maim for such purposes
releasing one and taking another captive
or both at once (think about self inflictors)
So much depends on how you see the wheelbarrow.
The things that carry are in demand.
“Take this, use that, be what we want”
transportation of a manufactured culture
found, bought, and deployed
on active recipients
hungry for something new
dropping and rising , dropping and rising
feeling the same pain with every drop
but still numb and dumb to the how
so churning continues
and purification waits.


House Recipe
Pull out one old house
purchased on loan
a thousand renovations needed.
Add two hopeful residents,                     
demolish eight walls and two ceilings
for two tons of wreckage
Disturb the ancient dust
to dump on the destroyers
in clouded, dusty quarters.
Take one broom and many hands
replace what was ruined.
Add headers, setters, cross-beams as needed
insulation and drywall too.
Cut, measure, hang
(mix with brief thoughts of self-mutilation)
patch, sand, prime
(pepper with curses)
Consume beer (not optional) to ease the sting
of anxious looks from overwhelmed faces.
Scatter tools, pizza boxes, and more dust to the floor
allow to settle
while your new home takes form.

Another drought story (July 07)
The fields are dry again
and dust-topped crops shrivel
in rows of disappointment-
no shield, no deliverance, no savior
just a tractor-mounted farmer
riding low gear with head down
past his cemetery tendrils
no headstones, no flowers, no sermons
just the pattering diesel motor
playing eulogies for the deceased
and even the tire tread mark disappears
in the hot wind
no relief, no release, no renewal
just hopeful movement forward
unsure about survival
with so many ways to bleed.

Next from Previous (revised from fall 06)
Knuckles drag on hospital plaster
between frantic tussles of hair
and sips from lip-worn coffee cups.
Shaky eyes follow the fluorescent light line
past the doors where only surgeons go
to salvage life or helplessly watch
as it slows.
What happens he wonders
to the slips-
do they linger unwanted over cocktail conversation,
maybe a notch is marked
on the white-tiled wall
to preserve something of the passing
reminders of imperfection.
Maybe they just meander
through the rooms and halls and lobbies
stirring apparitions
as they move.

Gun-faced (09/07)

I exit my school
walking past the officers.
They stomp with guns
automatic rifles through the door
to search our premises.
Static reports:
knife-wielding suspect
potentially inside
and hiding.
I wonder who
knowing the leery eyes I faced all day.
Would they turn their knives
towards me?
I drive away
seeing rifles in the faces
of kids strolling home.
My brain pulsing
with tightening grip
I roll the window down.

Impromptu Rant
Forcing creation
with words that stem from poisoned springs
long spiked by turmoil.
A mind that seethes
sees the beauty of before
and lags in the slow awareness
of decline.
What stimulation
what inspiration
led to the passages that used to flow?
When I inspect the outpour
it’s more like an unsteady drizzle
that spreads blotches on my brain.
Time to stoke the pits
to boil these infections.


Amble Ahead (October 07)

I’m ambling again
bouncing off the burning walls
that I ignite around me,
the needless flames I set
in my reckless passage.        
My torches travel with me
and I keep going back
to relight the same fires.
They guide my movement
and lead me to the molds
of frenzy, of stress
of the mangled contours of madness
where there is no steady grip.
But I scramble and strive
to point my stagger forward
gathering more than my tattered brain can tell
towards unseen heat.

Snow and Bike (December 07 or Jan 08?)
Flashing lights set on the back
red spots on the snowy wake
signals to those approaching.
Headlights pass
wondering eyes.
Where does he go?
What does he know
that makes him move so differently?
a bold and separate passenger
of night and snow and bike
roaming.
No agenda
no demands
only forward bounding
unraveling what’s wild
in a land of meager movements
He pushes beyond the scope of easy travelers.

Visiting and Revisiting Jan (08)
The lights were gentle on the line
of people speaking mildly
as they shuffled towards the viewing area.
I approached with the silence
I desired from them.
Whispers of the sadness were passing through
and stopped at me.
I held my own hand
looking only at the woven carpet
grey and clean below the centerpiece
that called us to that place.

the balmy stillness held me
when I met the lifeless scene.

All the casket faces I’ve ever seen
stared me down in that foyer
and I wept for each one.
No touch, no talk
just a broken pace towards the exit
malleable and shaken
by the display.

Grading Day Vent (Jan. 08)  
Pushing papers at unreceptive bodies
ink and blackness in both
waiting to be written or read
both in danger of being dead.
Attempts at transfer
blocked by attitudes and ineptitude,
in a ward designed to transform.
Medication lines form by bell signals
and they funnel through the door for treatment.
Rigid prescriptions for all
individualized by degree
supposedly.
The madness of the scene
upsets the dispensing
as the terminal ones corrupt progress
and caregivers howl their frustration
then proceed in their own particular ways
to self-medicate.

My Old Jalopy (Feb. 08)
I remember my high school car
a rumbling black beater box
that dripped its fluids on the concrete
the dark oil streaking through the vibrant green
of anti-freeze,
a mark of where I’d been.

Scrambling in through the passenger door
I would part the sea of trash
and pray for ignition
a “please God” for every turn of the key.
Sometimes confessions came
or curses above the coughing motor
but usually she would roar
and we would dance the herky-jerky
on whatever floor we came to.
She gave me what she could
and we stalled and sped our way
through the cruel contours of age:
me just beginning
she at her end.
I now know I was wrong
for kicking her fender before the tow
because she carried me, nurtured me
on ailing springs and sprockets.
and I was too closed to notice
the flowing tears of oil
that sprinkled her funeral road.


Hyohakusha (one who moves without direction) (Feb. 08)
Your twine-wrapped sandals
scaled twelve-hundred lonely miles
with no end in mind

past cloud-shrouded moons
ghost-like on a narrow road
leading through the land

down samurai paths
up the mossy stone walkways
in misty sunshine

along ancient ponds
leaves dropping in the mirrors
of sky reflections

each day sad partings
faded to meditations
under trees and mountains

sensing what has passed
beneath their changing shadows
you learned their secrets

then moved to share them
in carefully woven lines
to connect us all.

 A Dying Gull (March 08)  
 When I came it was half-immersed
 with wings spread under dim water
 and a bloated breast thrust towards the sky
 graying and gaping
 to scream
 but only hardly breathing.
 No god and no gull would come
 so its black eyes sought me for assistance
 or to project some unknown emotion
 towards my still hands.
  
 I thought to end it
 with the rusted pipe on the shore
 but I’m no god
 so I turned to go but stopped
 when the black water splashed.
 I looked back to see it limp onto an ice sheet
 that would float away
 to melt in a patch of sea.

Still Space (May 08) 
There’s a wet nose on my forearm
time to see what happens
when that spring-loaded door swings open
when we step onto the dewy sod
and leave our comfort in our footprints.
We'll go without our collars
leashes on the hook
moving with the freedom we can find
and looping back to our doors.

Passing the Morning( July ’08)
What thoughts are conceived
on a rain-drenched summer Saturday
when plans join the gutter run-off
in the yard sludge -
Mine are fitness buffs
on caffeine
confined to the indoor track of my mind
dizzy from the circles
darkened by captivity
and spinning twisted ideas on the circuitry.
Seal these in some black envelope
and mail them to a cloud-covered place
where darkness is  the norm
and labor blocks the messengers
of depression.
Let them stew in bleak normality    
consider their existence,
learn to get on,
adapt to being unfulfilled,
and make their own progress
with the knowledge
of deprivation.  

Two Line Twist
The demon man has turned his hands
and twisted all our glands

Walking (08, some time)
Leather on stone
a padded tone
rhythm kept with steps.
One man's thoughts collect
and deflect
making strides alone.


Felt Before (September 08)
I’m digging
excavating my buried plots
and crustaceans emerge...
dirt-caked pieces decayed
contorted in my hands.
Should my shovel unearth these
the corpses of my grounds?
they’re something different to me now:
desperation turned to dust-
and pain into a stone.
Love became a hopeful clay
while disappointment turned to fossil bone.

I pan through the rubble
of crumbling crud and gold
feeling every jagged or polished edge
unable to control
what I hold.

Reachin’ Hustla
Reach all you want
you can’t teach me.
I’m a thug, I’m a hustla
a homegrown G!
Try to get me to school
with your papers and rules
but I don’t follow no one
I won’t  be your fool.
I learn my lessons on the concrete
wheelin’ my deals
I got my gold and my Grey Goose
dubs on my wheels.
So how you gonna diss
I make more green than my pops
you can say what you will
but I ain’t gonna stop

cause I’m a hustla, a hustla
a full-blown hustla
I don’t need to read
school is for bustas

The world is a pearl
and my game is a clam
I keep ahold of my share
with my marketing plan.
Demand is high
and I got the supply
I offer free samples
you wanna take a try?
I know how to roll
I’m real vivacious
life teaches me
to be advantageous.
You want youth to take charge
to lead for success
well if money is the grade
I’m acin’ the test

(chorus)

Some say my work
will lead to tragedy
stuck behind bars
or in a harsh fatality.
But I ain’t scared
I’m smooth and discreet
I conduct my business
away from public streets
and if the haters front
I’m strapped to the max
they’ll feel my steel
if they try to touch my stacks.
So I’ll continue to slang
until the seas go dry
I’m tellin’ ya’ll
I ain’t gonna die

(chorus)


Down-sizing (Nov. 08)
I used to need wide roads to travel
with space to change lanes
and turn around.
I needed to spread my convictions
across dividing lines
let them collide
and race with the traffic.
I couldn’t stuff them in a pack
or tread on narrow trails-
they would not fit
I would not know which ones to stow.
Some people told me
even offered me their own
and I gathered the samples
to throw them in my roads
but most were pummeled
when the truth trucks rolled
and I walked over the rubble
with the fragments sticking in my soles.

Now the packages are scattered
on the passed miles of my ways
they don’t move far anymore
and I don’t travel or seek as much.
I’ve found some smaller plots
residing with the well-worn pieces
I plucked from my boots
carrying them round in a tiny pouch.

The Winter House (Jan 09)
The winter house is always cold
we tip-toe through the frigid rooms
fearful of an icy touch.
We scream when exposed
so we wrap in blankets and thick clothes
tending to duties while the weather churns.

I glare at every window, every crack
and curse each one
for its sly thievery
of heat.
But I, we, go on
in silence mostly
talking when we must
and shuffling between spaces
adding layers
waiting
hoping
for the thaw.


A Dirt-Road Jamboree (Feb. 09)
A country road and a radio
100 songs I can’t forget
every line asking for a dance
me, just a vessel for the courtship.
Some sit lonely
others lead out.
Everybody learns
everybody feels
dragging their suit coats on the floor
or running to get out
into the empty fields of night
where every inch of sky is open
with space for endless dancing.
I park along the moon-soaked dirt
to let the wild ones mix with wonder
and explore.

A Back Yard (Mar. 09)
Give me a plot
with no lawn
with landscapes made where dirt has blown
and trees have fallen
walkways will form around them
churning the compost
of lust
of wonder
of peace
subtle worship
with each movement
under rumbles or whispers
in  snow boots or bare feet
each print a verse
in accumulating hymnal books
never sung but stored
in some nameless vault
that releases notes
when no chapel can be found.

Denial (April 09-Palm Sunday)
Waiting to be saturated
to be cured
from this festering life
someone will surely come
and part the sand-blown roadways
spreading water on us all
We should wait
on our cracked porches
and watch for his arrival
no need to seek
no need to gather
we have each other
our nightly embraces
our comforting speeches
they hover round us in the dark
Turn off the news
it’s only serpent talk
no way a people so holy
could fall.


Bloated (August 2009)
Plugged ears,
lonely bed
noises sounding in my half-deaf mind
and remnants of a drunken sun
still throbbing on my skin.
I stagger in the heat
swollen from humid thoughts
of muscle and ambition
of eyes and will
aware of my muddy atrophy.
Weakness rises
as senses fall
and thrashing persists in hot rooms

so I blur the whole enterprise
and fade intermittently
towards morning.

Teacher Post

You assume
me to be a malcontent
finger-worn hair
shirt half un-tucked.
The smears you see behind me
remnants of my hands
that won’t erase.

My work
seen now as worn messages
strains to be fit
or known.
I continue
to arrange.


Return to the Copper Country (Oct. 09)
I’m being taken
across the channel bridge
up the road that carves the hillside
between the orchard trees.
Everything’s tingling
and I tumble
down the cratered two-tracks that jostle me
past the copper streams.

I once knew love here
I once found more
and I return to toast to everything I’ve known.

The scents I remember still linger
the hands that touched me still squeeze
the air moves through the conifers
All is mixed in the crossing forest roads
and I’m left with only fragments
of a Keweenaw dream.

A Fiery Host (Nov. 09)

Make up some high balls
set your yard on fire
let your haunted parcels burn
all can be forgotten.

The rotted doors
figures standing in them
the smudged windows
faces staring through the floorboards
creaky steps that follow you.
Throw them to the flame
keep ahead of the ghost wagon
wash the traced-out lines away.

But walk casually
spread the ashes through your pant legs
the stench will fade
let your coat flaps open
all can be forgotten
all can be made dead.

The Outer Yard (Nov. 09)
Looking for a space
with softer resonance
that deflects more gently
on my entryways
Currently locked in concrete
scared to speak for fear
of reprehension
avoidance necessary to preserve
peace
Willing to pack immediately

Also seeking battering ram
to pound dents on my captors
or to be ready if I need to.

Really just pursuing hope
for fewer attacks
more expansion.

A Source of Despair (Nov/ Dec. 09)
I hesitate to peak at my roof
winter’s frosting is iced on the membrane
that separates house from havoc.

chunks and layers grow
in the bondage of cold
I cannot wipe it clear
and so the guardian of my homestead
is corrupted.

I wonder what cracks
are being penetrated
which edges splice
under the frigid pressure of the ice
what leaks trickle and rot
the boards behind the walls.

Gangrene grows in those dark spaces
I fear.
Or some burgeoning mold
that will not be found
until it bursts through the drywall
in honeycombs of bacterial madness.

I will wait and try
to distract my gaze
and deny my thoughts of disaster
like anyone bound by horror
believing in relief
somewhere.

Saginaw Dwelling (Dec. 09)

No one will demolish it
the half-standing house on Genessee
not worth the costs
so its charred blue siding dangles
over windows where glass should be
Some fire chased the last tenants
and layers remain on the burnt-out patio.
Someone used to care for this
a bent broom and paint brushes
lie in a carpet of dust.

I stand with my arms across the doorway
in my own abandonment
everyone I left
everything I quit
mixes now with the moss
that grows where children slept
its moist chartreuse filling floorboard cracks.

One spray-painted word
VACATE
is illuminated
by the light from the decaying roof.
I
like everyone
walk away.

The Diner (Jan. 10)
 
Wednesday morning
the old men sit in their usual seats
in their regular clothes and haircuts.
The waitress moves among them
no need to ask for orders.
 
In come the students
louder than they need to be
smoking cigarettes because they can
at their usual table.
The old men heckle them
for their shaggy hair and shabby clothes
and everybody laughs.
 
They speak of hoped for lovers
and passed wives
while pushing forks through French toast
and sausage patties.
More cigarettes
more coffee
until the students clamor out
and the talk turns back
to pain and weather.

The Night's Last (Feb. 10)
 
He steps onto the snow deck
for his last one
the neighbors turn the blinds
as exhale gathers round the back light.
 
The first puffs are for the angst
every forced deed
every slanted word against him
they burn in moist lungs
and release.
 
The next send out alarms
for upcoming screams
the yelps that will be heard and felt
they blare in the singeing paper
then curl towards the treetops.
 
The last ones are for wonder
for skies and moons and rainstorms
for all that may be made
or erased.

Then extinguished

Screen Fixation (Feb. ‘10)

More connected now
but with tenuous strands
that throb
ready to explode, somewhere

Who controls this?

hands cannot configure
any perfect avenue
many touches needed
to guide these hungry
uncertain figures
as they woo the new clay

Break the Beast (March ’10)

We all have skin
but words have none
they come from any creed
any daughter, any son
so let these that I form
batter you by storm
verbal bombardment
strike you to transform
all your preset notions
all your negativity
bout people and problems
bout how everyone should be
your lips are flappin
spewing gossip and hate
your walls will fall
you will deteriorate
so move son
you hon
drop your guns
drop your weak sucka frontin’
drop your lie twisting tongue
we live to create but you still destroy
fooled by flashes in a world of ploys
It’s a game with traps
play too long you get snapped
you spread pain and deceit
and it stabs you back.

We’ve been muddy too long
muddy too long
you got to get yourself clean now
get yourself strong (x2)

What now, how now
what steps can we take
First be true
just erase the fake
stop the bombs
don’t destroy your space
add some clout to your corners
something worthy in your place
seek to enhance
the only hands you own
give some, live some
drop your stones
why aggravate
why try to inflate
these infected egos
these dilapidated states
just think more
look more
to your core
pick out the rotten pieces
don’t contaminate your score
cause points do tally
more than people keep track
so break from the mold
keep on adding to your stack
no not gold
no diamonds or chains
make layers of progress
leave growth not stains
cause how can you thrive
you don’t stand a chance
with hatred in your fingers
wrongs smeared on your pants
so wash your self
start a different stride    
stop moving backward
move forward with pride


Garage Floor Poetry (March ’10)

Someone should sweep this
oil-drizzled concrete.
I shuffle on its contours
between dartboard shots
and sips of cold, canned beer.

Staring at paint cans
smeared with the colors of the rooms I’m avoiding.
Dusty wrenches
hang by my hands.
I only turn my guts-
no sweeping tonight
the dirt gathers
under the light.  

Clothes and Eyes (Easter ’10- Revised completely June ’10)
 
They used to till their garden
in twill pants and hardware store gloves
towering rows of sweet corn
bushels of beans and carrots topping the soil.
I watched them all and knew nothing.
They watched me too
in my hand-me-down shorts and tennis shoes
a mere sprout in their yard.

I grew
the garden shrank.
Their trowels rusted.

They moved, I moved,
I still knew nothing.

I am yet before their eyes
not growing on the posts planted for me.
They observe and confront
their perceptions of failure.

Struck by their deeds
I stand at their graves
turning the dirt above them.



Steeped (April 20)
My eloquence has stepped
into a steaming pile
attempts to elucidate
shrivel down to dormant bile.

I’ll flex my skinny wrists again
I can withstand a bruise
my pulsing, rabid frame is taut
and tense where tendons fuse.

I’ll spin more muscle
to appease my audience
to affirm my sense of me
until my ego’s eye relents.

All will jumble together
in a barrel of fear and will
composting new emotions
to spread and till.            

The Capture (response to capturing kids’ hearts- May 10)
Let me choose my words
I could shower you with compliments
or bash your interests
and destroy your confidence.

Our world’s a mix of this
our words are medicine
or darkly venomous
racing under the skin.

Take James for a case
he stutters when perturbed.
Kids call him donkey to his face
so he skews towards disturbed.

He’s a plugged up gas tank
approaching explosion
his abilities stuck
in emotional erosion.

But he’s a mechanical guru
mathematically astute
just recognizing this
helps him reboot.

Ashley is another
she has piercings in her cheek
draped in black with wild hair
kids call her emo-freak.

So she retreats to darkness
to experiment with pain
or distribute it to others
morphing into deranged

yet she’s linguistically gifted
wit and insight in her mind
giving praise to her prowess
helps her powers to refine.

Speaking of power
we’re kings and queens of influence
our utterances
cause growth or death to commence.

So do you fertilize
or do you dig graves
consider your soil
think of the roads you pave.

Make them rich and smooth
help people bloom and move
to form a garden highway blend
of interlocking grooves.
______________________________________

Shaky
Shaky hands can’t hold
a book in a field of a million voices
or build a mind that stabilizes
after flight.

________________________________________

Mid-July (July ’10)

Summer is lead.
I wake with humid weight
dulled by plugged ears;
the light seems sharp, the air thick
as though painted by some sadistic creator
with hot brush strokes.
Slugging along
I tend to household duties
twisting shovels in dry dirt
mowing, painting, picking, clearing
planting.
The metal runs off me in salty droplets
and I pause in a yard of neat growth
listening through the neighbor’s window
to the sound of television programs
missing the old hosts
awaiting the forecast.

Coming in  (Aug. ’10) 
Mama please don’t look me in the eye.
Don’t smell my breath, don’t make me lie.
I cannot tell you where I’ve been
or who I’ve seen you’d know my sin.
 
Just let me pass into my bed
& keep confession in my head.
Make conclusions when I close the door
I know you’re praying, and you’ll pray some more.
 
We’ll confront ourselves in different ways
punch at our ghosts because they stay
invent new ways to justify
your disbelief and my disguise.
Stuck to windows, faces pinned
we’ll feel the midnight wind.
 
If I sleep I’ll dream of storms
and thrash while clouds and charges form.
I’ll be blind as I spin and bend,
land in mud and walk again.
 
When I wake and walk through the door
I won’t be changed and you’ll sweep the floor.
We’ll greet, not speak about our deeds
while stepping round our misery.
 
We hold our weight in different ways
our shame smears all that we betray.
Wrinkles and creases on our faces
we fill our time and maintain spaces.
Drawn to doorways, fences laid
we add to the blockade.

The Neighborhood Family (Aug/Sept. ’10)
The dad came out first
clutching his hardback bible
and stood with tight face
on the edge of the driveway,
And he may have seen me looking
but then the children came
with washed hair and careful speed
all to seats in the van.

What did I see
in his wrinkled look?

They drove
the same houses went by
American flags and hydrangeas
every Sunday’s passage
with clean windows and seat belts
someone turned the radio on.

I didn’t see but I imagine
his furled brows curled
as the unwitting clan ran before him
into church.

A Cadillac and a Cruiser (Oct. ’10)
Angst drives a Cadillac.
He's gruff and mad
with dark, stern lips that shake.
He's a leather-gloved bouncer
who drives fast and erratic
side-swiping mailboxes.
I've suffered by him-
stress and violent affliction
all from his thick hands,
but he takes me places
and we get there quick.
Sometimes I'm dropped in strange neighborhoods
and forced to get home.
I return with lacerations
that clot with what I've seen.
 
Happiness takes a bike,
a thick-wheeled cruiser that glides
comfortably on familiar pavement.
He's a kindly fellow
with soft hair and gentle eyes.
He carries me to the lake
or to the woods nearby
and I wander leisurely under skies and trees.
No frightened mind or swinging fists.
Enchanted, I return
to be bashed by a roaring Cadillac.
I wake up from blackout in its back seat,
furious.

What’s Not Seen (Jan. 2011)
I am the man in the torn coat
pushing cans for dimes
my quick eyes deflect
your side glances and shuffling.
Move like me once,
craving moves me
to walk your back alleys
the tracts you ignore
and gather from the edges
of all you've burned.
Your fingers dig only in pockets
mine claw the earth
so when I sleep I burrow low
while you rest from your throne.

Dormant (Feb. ’11) 
Four-plus inches again last night
the land received the sky-
a fresh coat
for worn walkways and thoroughfares.
Ice-bent shovels and squeaky snow-blowers
prep their weary sinews again.

Inside the furnace cycles
twenty times an hour
the coffee pot sputters.
Faces in the windows
confront their Saturday
and even the dog drops his ears
at the thought of navigating the white sea.
The familiar sounds of windshield scraping
and snow plow rumbling
greet them at the door.
Old hips and cold hands
proceed about their business.
 
Something churns
as the shovel loads amass-
the sour gut of stagnation
the snow banks’ prison walls
the weather warning sirens
and the driveway blockade of the plow's second pass.
 
No more.
 
The car is started
skis and dog inside
to barrel through the barricade
towards woods
no walls,
no wars.

The Shores of Tripoli (March ’11)
Look to the sky
a super moon and green missile tracers
wonder and fright on a black backdrop.
Telescopes and sights set
more  to be prepared
ships and words
calculation
retaliation
continuation
of wills whose hands will never touch
beneath spectacles that go cloudy
with interference.


Resurrection (April ’11- Easter Saturday)
Reassure me please
with garden sprouts and Easter blooms
I’ve been steeped in decay-
green rot on the deck
moldy leaves tucked in corners
the wood pile gone soft.

What of the return?
It comes with thunder clouds and floods
I thought it would be fire this time.
I must brew my own heat
in crude interior kettles
sit and drink my tea
consider what my hands can revive.

A Young Dream 
Help me to dream
of wet dogs and trout streams
blue skies and lullabies.
Lead me to the richest soil
so I can plant and be fed.
Tell me the names of the trees around me
how to climb
and what to hold on to.
Give me room to fall
and to stretch
to think and to wonder.
Show me
how to love.


Owls (July ’11)
The owl with mascara eyes
pumps his jowls in my yard
and swallows his prey.
I watch with wide eyes
snap photos from the deck
and turn the burgers on the grill.

Solo Camp
A swim in the night lake
dried by the air
feet two inches in the sand
beneath galactic flare.

Orion's belt
is strapped to a lightning storm
above a sea of bobbing shadows
where erratic charges form.

It moves towards me
with a gathering roar
pushing chaos to the beach
and me to my tent door.

___________________________________

(08/08/11- Arthur’s Last Day)
Grandpa passed today
The sky was one side lightning
and one side sun
I walked to a spot in the middle
to watch the low clouds slide between the branches above me
breathing as deeply as my lungs allowed.


Routes and Hills (Aug. 2011) 
I’ve gouged my knuckles turning wrenches
carried a casket to a hearse
swam under beaming galaxies
and netted salmon as big as my arms.
 
I’ve torn down wallpaper
cursed and thrashed in my bed
toasted to renovated nurseries
and kissed my wife’s pregnant belly. 
 
I’ve gone broke
watched friends break and leave
climbed new hills
and waded in rivers more powerful than me.
 
I’ve battled and bickered
strained over papers and jobs
pried openings to other worlds
and fed lines into their holes.
 
I proceed
with tense mind and muscles
to unprecedented avenues
and carry all I can in me.

The Years After
He’s still around
and visits when I least expect
on the roads we used to drive
or in songs we sang together.

Go to the places you knew him
you’ll see traces of his flair
feel his energy
feel his terror
when the wind blows strange.

Stark November
throws fleecy clouds across a cold, clear sky
I shake and remember

A river exists that we still share
its current presses and carries us
in different ways.

Two track (not to be taken seriously)

Broke away from the city scene
far from smog and clog and screens
we stopped at the corner store
to fuel my party machine.
Rolled on down the county road
our worries all were dropped
and when the tires first left concrete
our first cold brews were popped.

A two-track and a six pack
it’s time to go for a ride.
Pack the seats in my Chevrolet
let’s see what we can find.
We’ll roll away into the woods
unbound beneath the trees
because when we get off the radar
we’ll always be free.






In View (June ‘13)
When I’m gone you’ll find me
in the wind-crazed wheat fields
in the swirls of the aurora
the sun-rippled water.

Rest on the dune, road, or shore
feel me in their energy
and realize our affinity.

Revival

Glisten-ladenleaves
linger in midnight’s still;
bearing beaming rays of moonlight,
above lovers that weep in parting.
As shadows grow I think and know,
not all companions stroll in stride.
Every walk has its wanderings
that even closest love can’t hold.
Two souls move as they will,
their longings to seek out,
their spirits to fulfill.

Still, dawn shall rescue
the greenery attached to trees
from drooping too closely to the ground,
and fill them with a breeze.

Quitting the altar

    The only job I’ve ever had was Jesus, and it only lasted a day. I quit before I could be fired. I didn’t want the holy messengers to throw me out, but they did anyway.
    
    That morning was announced as a glorious one under the gracious eye of the Lord above. Nothing seemed glorious to me as I tried to light the altar candles. My mother Jean, in her role as social corrector, arranged for me to be altar boy at Redeemer Lutheran, our church. She intended the experience to help cure my anxiety around people. She thought the altar robe had the power to purify and exorcise my shortcomings.
    It didn’t help.
    When the time came to do my duty, I walked out to light the two tiers of candles. My hands shook as I tried to light them. The flame waved over the wicks, but they would not catch. I could hear the silence of the congregation turn to shuffles and whispers as I fumbled before them. When I reached for the farthest candle I slipped and burnt a hole in the communion drapery. A gasp came from those in the sanctuary. I had defaced the sacrament, the body and blood of Christ. I just stood still, facing the stained-glass picture of Jesus on the back wall. His gaze went over me as if he were disgusted with my performance. That’s when I quit.
    At that moment the preacher came out and very reverently smiled while taking the rod from me. He bowed to the Jesus window and lit all the candles in a matter of seconds. When finished he handed me the rod with a fierce calmness. His eyes told me that I was toying with God’s work and that I should exit promptly. I was the ultimate altar loser. I glanced at the pews and caught my mother’s look of disgust and embarrassment. It followed me as I walked out the side door.
    “You’ve failed again my son.”
    It was my mother’s voice I seemed to hear as I discarded my robe on the church lawn. I knew I’d catch hell at home for this whole ordeal, and I felt a bit numb as I rode away on my bike.
    Of course I did feel in some ways but no way good. The demands of my parents and the structures around me always got me down, and that day was no different. My youth was being plundered, and I think they were preparing me for a lifetime of being sucked dry. My mother was a perfect example of what I might have become; empty as a hole. Her entire existence consisted of going through motions that I could find no purpose or meaning to. And her cold, joyless way of being was a warning to me that I had to do something else. So in leaving the church I felt I had shed one of those life-sucking sources. It was then I could begin to fill up.
    I had no intention of going home, so I rode to our neighborhood woods. Some trails ran through there, and it was home to a little fort of mine. On that Sabbath day, it was also home to an old man drinking whiskey from a jar.
    He was singing the old hymn “How Great Thou Art”, and I stood for a moment outside the fort to listen. His bellowing was more spirited than anything I had ever heard in church. This was his time of worship. I had to go in to find out more.
    “Hey ya sonny,” he slurred. Some of the whiskey spilled on his tattered jacket.
    “Uh, hi.”
    “Pardon my trespassing. I just needed a place to lay up for a while.”
    “It’s not really mine. You can stay if you’d like.” I wondered how safe that offer was as I fidgeted at the door.
    “No, you don’t need an old man like me in here. This jar of mine is still near full, and I ain’t got nuthin’ but thinkin’ and drinkin’ today.” He took a big swig.
    “How come you were singing church songs when I got here?”
    “I used to sing all them hymns. The church people taught me how to sing ‘em. But I made a split and went my own way. The land’s my church now, and I worship it by wandering. I find what I need wherever I go and bring whatever I can to whoever I meet- that’s my gospel. But I better be on my way now. Thanks for the shelter.”
    He walked away without another word. I meant to say good-bye, but all I could do was watch him stagger away.
    I stayed at the fort for a while, checking to make sure all my secret stashes were still in place. But my thoughts never left the whiskey man. His scent remained, and that was the only way I knew for sure that he was real. I imagined him wandering the town, past the church and the gawking congregation, emptying his jar as he went. And I smiled at the thought that he might just be the holiest man I ever met.
    I rode my bike home with those images in my mind. I came to my front door and paused before going in, wishing I could be roaming with him. I could hear my mother’s footsteps coming towards the door.

For J. Daniel

It is the season of dying
when the earth turns grey and cold,
and the rivers stop their running
in the timeless freeze of old.

In the past my blood ran true
as winter’s came and sighed,
but my veins turned ice-blue
the day J. Daniel died.

Yet in that darkness I sense a light
of the man that helped me through the tolls,
and though he lost a an ugly fight
he still weaves through my soul.

The growth we found together,
through our losses and our grins,
no grief could ever sever.
Now, slowly, the healing begins.

The Dream After

I slept lightly at a station
in a half-conscious slumber
and heard a  ghost cry out.
My body trembled
as screams came over static
The rage shook me
and I could not respond
or go closer for more.
My love was all I could utter
for the call broke up in mumbles
and I woke up to wonder.
My eyes shivered in the light
adjusting to the realness of the moment
and the fright.

Now a year has passed
since I viewed that padded casket
but I still dream and the soul I know
still visits me when I do.


Then and Now: The Garage

    For a long time I was a big fan of garages, so purposeful and versatile; the shelter and storage for everything that’s not allowed in houses. Dirt can remain along with garbage and half-forgotten possessions. They’re like museums for curious kids and havens for disgruntled spouses. As far as garages go, my friend Scott’s was quite nice; spacious and heated. I never gave it much thought. It was simply an extension of the house, a place away from parents and police, and we could spill, fight and smoke without worry.

    I’m not a fan anymore.

    I spent many fine hours in Scott’s garage. It harbored all the typical fare: bicycles, lawn chairs, old baseball bats and gloves, and a wheeled garbage can. Most of those items, at one time or another, were thrown, hit, or knocked over during our spirited shenanigans. It was our smoking depot, and it smelled of dollar air fresheners and stale cigarette smoke. We would joke and blow smoke into the rafters, where more gear hung in the dust. Our talk was of girls in bikinis and who had the latest nature trail make out session.
    I haven’t been in that garage for a while now. Scott doesn’t even live there anymore, but I know it has changed. I know because my friend Dan decided to add himself to the things hanging from the rafters. His lifeless body must have swung below the gear, a shadow among shadows.
All I have is my imagination to explain what the garage is like now. I imagine there’s not much of anything inside, besides a looming presence, a crazed infusion of his ghost. The rope could still be hanging, and the garbage can that Dan kicked out from under himself could still be on the ground. I’ll never know, and I can go without the details.
    Now our conversations have shifted from girls in bikinis to friends in caskets and what went wrong, and there’s no conclusion to that topic. It lurks in the mystery, the frustration, and the darkness of Dan’s passing. My body cringes whenever I drive past that place. It’s a symbol of my grief and an object of my confusion. I think about it all the time.

Open Eyes
    I’ve heard some people say that going to church helps them to be free. I don’t know what they’re talking about. I always feel like I’m grounded when I’m there. But I’m only a nine-year-old girl, and even though I’m pretty smart, nobody expects me to know anything anyway. The only freedom I’ve ever felt in church (it’s a naughty freedom) is opening my eyes during prayer. Sure I have to peek in fear of my mom pinching my wrists, but prayer time is when all the good stuff happens. It’s amazing what a young girl can discover when all the heads are down. Here’s some of what I’ve noticed…
    Kids tend to know you can get away with more during prayer because everyone’s eyes are supposed to be closed. I don’t think the Oosterban children think about that much, and that makes them fun to watch. Darren likes to slide around under the pews and stir up trouble in the congregation. His mom used to try and get him from the back rows, but that really messed up the service. Now when Darren sneaks under she just lets him go. My mom says that boy should be chained in the boiler room. A dark, hot place does seem like a good spot for him.
    The other Oosterban kid, Molly, likes to draw in the hymnal book. Even I know that doing that is one major sin. That’s like asking God to put you on the fast train to the bad place. One week we sat right behind the Oosterbans, and I saw Molly draw a devil dancing on the notes of “Jesus Loves Me”. Now that’s freaky stuff! I’m glad I got to see it though. Prayer peeking is the best!
    The Witherbeans aren’t as exciting , but they’re still fun to watch sometimes. They sit in the same spot every week, looking dead in their seats. I’ve seen Arthur drool mid-prayer several times, and Dottie has lost the energy to elbow him awake. I remember when she was full of life and smiling. Her singing voice could be heard over everyone. Now she only mumbles the songs with a mouth full of dentures and pain. Getting old must stink. When they really do die they should be stuffed and left in the pews.
    I think The Breavers are related to the Witherbeans. They only come in the summer time and always seem tan. Wendy Breaver, their daughter, is a high school girl with an attitude problem. A lot of the boys talk about her and those things on her chest. She has her eyes open too, but she doesn’t look around. Her face is always tight, and she looks angry. I think her parents make her come. The only time I ever see her smile is when she checks her cell phone during prayer. Now I know that is not considered appropriate prayer behavior either, so we are kind of the same in a way. She’s not as good as I am though. I’ve seen her get busted by her mom many times, and every time she goes right back to scowl mode. Wendy should check out what’s going on in the sanctuary; maybe she’d lighten up a little. As it stands, Wendy doesn’t even know who I am; a result, no doubt, of my crafty spying skills.
    All this comes to me while other people’s eyes are squeezed in reverence. I think I got a leg up on them. I don’t understand why we should close our eyes. Does God not want us to see all these funny, revealing things? Isn’t church all about revealing the truth? Maybe the preacher guy demands that everyone shut their eyes so nobody sees each other’s weirdness.
    Speaking of weird, Mrs. Finley is definitely the weirdest prayer I’ve ever seen. She always looks perfect, even when Darren is sliding at her feet and looking up her skirt. I think she might practice at home. Her face is so serious and she never moves or hunches over. My mother says Mrs. Finley thinks her poop doesn’t stink. That must be nice. It’s like she has to be just right or something. Nobody’s supposed to be watching anyway. I get the feeling that she might be pretending, like she’s trying to impress someone. Why would anyone want to do that? It looks painful. Maybe that’s why she has such an ugly daughter.
    Mrs. Finley’s daughter Veronica tries to copy her mother, but she’s not as good. Veronica reminds me of a mole with her chubby cheeks and squinty eyes, and we don’t really get along. She knows all the answers in Sunday school, and she used to tell on me for opening my eyes during prayer. I was the one who would get in trouble even though she must have opened her eyes to see me. What a crock! That all ended when I saw her eat a booger during the parting blessing one day. She should have known that I’d be looking around. Now if she tattles I’ll tell everyone about her booger eating antics, and she knows it too. It’s what the preacher calls blackmail, a sin against your neighbor. I think it’s fun. Plus, it gives me power over others. I really like that.
    So you can say what you will about my behavior and whether or not it’s right. That all depends on where you come from. I don’t care what people say, my eyes are gonna be open during prayer. Considering all the benefits, I don’t see why they wouldn’t be. I have weekly revelations the Bible just can’t provide, and it helps me to understand what is actually going on in the world. It’s not like I’m going to pretend that these things aren’t happening. It seems like most people don’t even know. That’s why I’m going to keep on peeking, watching to see what comes next. So when they need someone who really knows what’s going on, I’ll be able to take charge.

Going Back to Fire and Brimstone
    You may have noticed that a disturbing number of children have taken on the role of boss in their households. You may have seen evidence of this in grocery aisles where a child (an undeveloped, immature, and dependent being) controls what purchases the parent will be making, and the parent will acquiesce to the child’s (I repeat, child’s) will.
    “I NEED THOSE COOKIES MOM! I NEED, I NEED, I NEED!”
    “Ok, honey. Just don’t make a scene.”
    When I was a child, I would have been thrown directly into those cookies, pinched, spanked, and slapped, then asked if I still needed the cookies. Of course, I learned quickly who was in control and when I should shut my little mouth.
    Other instances of this type of modern child behavior can be found in churches, playgrounds, neighborhoods, and in schools, the place where people are paid to deal with the miscreants of weak-kneed parents. It’s infuriating, maddening, and so unnecessary. We have become soft, and we are rearing softer, more demanding, and more annoying children. This cannot stand! It must be fixed before we have a generation of self-entitlement sissies trolling about. What we need to do is take some lessons from our forefathers; the ones who knew how to scare people into submission. The Jewish God is a great example: a fierce and rather creative punisher.
    It’s easy to see why so many people from the early Jewish Community listened to strange men and followed them on bizarre and often life-threatening endeavors- they were scared out of their Hebrew minds. No doubt people would fill their cloaks with manna crap every time it so much as thundered because they thought God’s fiery vengeance was about to rain on them. That soul-gripping fear was established by some acts of divinity that sent a clear message: if you do not comply with my decrees, you will regret it. People listened and obeyed. What happened to this mode of operation?
    The Old Testament God knew how to teach a lesson. Sodom and Gomorrah, for example, could have been burned or ransacked by vicious marauders for going against God. But oh no, old Yahweh pummeled them with burning sulfur from the heavens. I imagine Abraham looking down toward the wreckage, pinching his nose to thwart the aroma of sulfur-seared bodies and feeling pretty good about abiding with God. The Bible doesn’t tell us much about the aftermath of this incident, but it is fairly safe to assume that people who witnessed or heard of this thought better of engaging in acts of sodomy and debauchery. The same kind of effect would be achieved if that whiny kid in the grocery store got a swift back-hand to his mandible.  
    At some point in history (within the last 50 years it seems), people decided that this incredibly effective method of behavior control was too hurtful or harsh. Maybe they thought the spirits of the punished were being squelched or damaged in some way. People wanted to bolster kids’ self-esteem and work with them to overcome their problem behaviors. That all led to adults making excuses for their socially inept children, who in turn started making excuses for themselves. When little Cody says he forgot to mow the yard because of his ADD, all that happens is a call to the doctor for an adjustment of his medication dosage. Really, he was too mind-warped with video games to give household duties much thought.
    Is it any wonder that teachers complain of unprecedented levels of defiance and employers struggle to find steady and able workers that work without complaining?  People need to start sending clear messages to these kids that they are not in charge. I am not advocating a return to extreme physical abuse (as may be suggested earlier), but something needs to be done. Feet need to be put down, boundaries need to be set (and upheld), and some rigid firmness needs to replace this nurture all the way approach.
    Pour some sulfur on their X-boxes, send plagues upon their bedrooms. Just don’t allow them to defy authority or act on their immature impulses without consequence. While their fear may lead to some minor paranoia and resentment, it’s better than a world of arrogant, self-righteous punks that believe nobody can tell them what to do.


This collection, more than any picture or video, is a projection of my spaces. I consider it a work in progress, but for now this is the open end. Though the struggles and successes will continue, I have more than what I need. I will just keep on moving while negotiating with the breeze….

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