The Beachheads of Galilee

I am strong.

Is that too snobbish for you?

I admit most women and men’s strength

far exceeds my trench of thought

but I know about wrong and right more than many,

less than some.

Being born in a manger doesn’t get it for me,

a step towards tribalism,

a graduated step towards modernism

not modern thought.

Worshiping in mansions and super domes

Is like Pink Floyd,



Your Jesus, your God, and Holy Ghost

left for Tahiti years ago,

first class seating on the U.S.S. Striker

I can only guess their whereabouts today.

Dead I suppose.

Sent to sea on a raft with burning coconuts.

The Perfect Funeral

Dark, cool room

flowers on both sides of her coffin

quiet classic country playing.

her favorite Patsy Cline hits.

“Mother” written on a bouquet of red

like a saddle on a brown maple stallion.

Maybe Bertha was riding Trigger to heaven,

no one said, I wouldn’t ask. I was twelve.

Sporadic cackles rang through this veil of death,

old ladies’ laughing I thought peculiar.

Finally a man of the cloth, reminded me of a Sloth,

stood up and started the flames of Hell,

my bow tie tightened and sweat poured in harmony

with the old man’s words..

What a perfect funeral I heard a woman say.

I scurried to the Men’s Room to give a child’s only gift.

Bus Ticket to Heaven

Death it seems to me is just a movement,

a bus stop in Cleveland I don’t know,

just a crowd of faceless faces

waiting for another ride.

Browns, Blacks, Whites,

pimps, whores alike

just waiting for another bus

to St. Louis, finally St. Peter’s.

Cinderellas won’t ride a night tram,

no night coach for them

strictly Amtrack’s club car

taking a double decker to heaven.

Imagine death if you can

sweep the dirt

chase those skeletons,

take the last bus out of town.

It’s a two-way trip for some,

for others a two year warranty.

God loves you but if you come by bus

check the final destination on your ticket.

The Very Last Supper

Spread before me the last supper

menu items bread, wine a dance with Mary,

a man with a camera,

tape recorder and a burly guard with handcuffs.

I have done unto the poor, to the least of these,

what I couldn’t do for you.

Say cheese and snap a picture,

a still photo landscape of what’s left.

I fear that God and number forty-five

have brought about the apocalypse

minus one percent.

Motel 6

God’s got me in his back pocket,

black billfold, plastic driver’s license,

and a sense of my demise.

He’s too busy trying to find a way to speak

to the haters, the arrogant, and legally blind.

What’s He going to say? “Hey you

find a fish, a bottle of wine and march

across the Sea of Gallilee. Look

for your nearest Motel Six. I left a light on.”

I’ve Walked

So you think I’ve come this far just to die?

You lifted me up when I fell but who’s to say

I shouldn’t have fallen years ago, maybe I should have.

Who’s to say what’s right, what’s worth fighting for?

Some God? I don’t think so. If he walk a path

I missed it, didn’t see the footprints, the broken wine glass.

I am here now, another day older and waiting to die.

Vietnam told me to live. Woodstock told me to love.

Did I listen? Are you listening my friends? Don’t miss

signs along your path, take my word all things must pass.

George Harrison Visited

George Harrison’s ghost came to me one night

sang a song with his guitar. I listened.

He became my God, my mentor, my reason.

His white robe windswept and crying

for a world gone wrong, a world going backwards.

He smiled at me and played another sad song.

“This is for you my friend, always has been.

Wrap your love around her and weep, sleep

now for all things must pass, so too will this life.”

Spring in Paris

Did I mention a dark skinned man

sits alone in a house of white, he’s a target

for a world of pig nose colored bigots?

Bigots wear teabag hats and snakes

curled around their flag, they are god’s children,

scrotum mouthed children, nazi nosed bastards

bullets spinning from their lips.

They love the constitution,

hate the Bible cause they know

Jesus took the last Concord Jet to Paris

and won’t be back, he’s never coming back.

Bus Stop

We stared at the steeple, God stared back.

We knew it was a lie before dressing this moment.

You cried “there’s no god here,” no god here I repeated.

Just beautiful rolls of carpet,

deep painted windows and whispers, the whispers

changing our names, god given names, to a temple guess,

a temple joke, and no one laughed, no God for sure.

A stranger grasped my hand and pulled me through a curtain.

Your passing through heaven’s curtain,” He said softly.

The quiet in our new gateway to god antithetical

to a clamoring noise in our minds. I screamed “God is dead.”

Hushed silence disappeared as we left a fake temple.

Salt Lake City swallowed with relief as we boarded a bus

to leave, never to return. Funny I guess. We never returned

to each other. The world underwent a change for us.

God did not return. He grabbed a bus and headed to Vancouver.

New Galilee

A neighborhood dog pressed his nose against the wind,

drooling at the thought of someone’s bitch in a mama’s way.

He yanked but chains held him tighter with each tug. Soon

he hanged in a noose of steel like a mouse trapped in a pool of cheese.


She stood sleek and moving with a savage need for music

like a need she’s felt since youth and bathing suits.

I watched and felt my mouth wetting, salivating for her touch.

She saw me seeing her and smiled, her ass inviting, so inviting.


Hiding quiet in their closet I peeked as my father massaged her.

My mother moaned like she was dancing a mamba with only his hand.

Together they softly spoke, gently stroked, the smell of musk climbing,

each stirred until their tongues reached and played a symphony for the night.


Fall air snapped me into reality, Cathy stared up to x-ray my eyes

like she is Jesus staring at a splash of water beneath his feet on Galilee.

She clasped my hand and smiled with cherry lips. Right then and there

I died in a pool of my own life, a life not wasted, not known.