Another Visit by the Black Dog

just a downslide when no hills exist
a deep troubling ending
for a life never begun.
I visit the oven’s open mouth
more often than not
Sylvia’s got nothing on me
I the deflated ball she never bounced.
Coward I bounce to a dead mirror
I’ve knotted the rope
but my hands disobey my heart
my mind forever tortured echoing coward.

First Love

Do you remember the days we ran together
those days bruised knees strong legs
those days kissing behind your cabin
hearts pounding love engorged?
Your lips cherry strawberry and holly
I pale boy waited outside mouse quiet
you run slipping on maple wings
embracing you say forever love.
Forever what’s that?
we parted in sadness and hope
forward reality caught our souls
in the wars our father fought.
Ignorance blew our minds
a mottled ocean separated us
bullets flew through the green thickets
my first birth a baptism of fire.

Walkin’ on Salt

Hail to the chief. We have no chief.

Time for the apocalypse I say.

We can’t says a chorus of faded faces

We need a chief before we declare an end

to blood, sweat, tears, and ninety-nine bottles of beer.

So bring on the Agent Orange and burn Seattle,

albuquerque, and Chicago, bring on the brown shirts.

Hell the world can’t end without brown shirts.

Faces fade more and more, voices mere mouthings.

You declare the Orange man to be Jesus.

Jesus and Charlie Manson declared Marilyn

bass guitarist, Juan to fill

while Jesus takes a full walk across Salt Lake City.


Wings touched the flame with just a whisper.

The moth falls and fails to fly again.

We are the moths who live our lives

as far from the heat as possible.

The tax man comes and we are burned

yet like a mad Geppetto we build more wings.

A Hot Bath

Watching you towelling,

my smile shot my neck a crick or two.

Our relaxation invigorating

as you softly touched my chin,

a kiss I needed, we both needed

like a redbud needs a daily drink.

Seems my breath is heavier nowadays,

winter may come early.

Touch me softly but not briefly, time is

not on my side anymore, enemy of the state

you bastard. Strip me of my leaves, leave

me to die against a backdrop of angel snow.


Sometimes I like to close my eyes,

listen to the busyness of crows.

They speak in urgent tones.

I don’t know why.

At night a murder of them

try to stay quiet but the urgency remains

in groanings and sour hushes, beaks tight.

I listen when I can, you see crows are like us,

urgently mad yet hiding from night to night.

I can’t dance. I would if I could beneath the crows

just to say to them I’m like you but I cannot fly.

Someday I will.

I am a Dead Tree

I died on the battlefield,

a simple affair you see.

No taps were played,

no triangulated flag.

Not a normal death of course

just a mind thing

like closing a coffin door

inside my head.

Sounds of bombs and rockets

muted then silenced

soldiers’ lips mouthing screams,

I was frozen like winter grass

In February.

They brought me home

full honors with a six-pack salute.

I’m planted now beneath a window,

a tree growing

in our living room

I love when they water me.

My grandson pees on me,

occasionally the dog.

My days are surely numbered

leaves are falling from my arms.



Sadly sifting through an hourglass

watching grains of life escape

brown eyes clashed with  sand

the old man smoked 

sensing the air about him

close by a forest creature filled

the copse with smells of dangerous

odors like urine, feces, and semen.

His hands trembled lightly like twigs

beneath a vulture’s claws, 

he unlocked his island heart carefully

and placed a bullet there.

The Crying Place

Without assemblage I hid in a stall.

It’s a place some men go to cry,

Why am I crying? You tell me.

Sometimes it just happens like a firefly

slowly dodging the big things in its life.

Guys like me do that too. We dodge.

We fear the big people in our lives. Though,

we fear the small things, but now I’m crying

because I’m dying, my heart’s been clubbed.

Selfish me, crying for myself. Not true my love.

I cry for us. We came as a pair


I stared with curiosity as your eyes died.

Those  viscous black marbles once full of war,

now stare at a wall many before you examined.

Jesus is coming someone tried to comfort too late.

It is easy to say you’re going somewhere mighty fine,

you’re finally going to cross that eternal line.

Someone please tell me how it is you say

the return trip much than the first, only sounds

of locomotives, diesel trucks, and ambulances

return a blankness so many of us are afraid is truth.