Dan said I’d like
to win the lottery

I’d buy a trailer home
maybe go across country

I don’t play no more
I use to  I think
I’ll start playin again

That’s a picture of my sister and me

I woulda like to live
in the old times
you know free and all
like the cowboys
I bet they got pretty bored though

You cut school much?

That’s my dog
he’ll come atcha
an run aroun
but he’s just playin aroun

One time though these
two little girls was wrestlin
with each other in our yard
an he bit one of em
but it wasn’t nothin serious

Dogs got it pretty easy
runnin aroun all day
an sleepin an all that

I wouldn’t mind bein a dog

Ingratitude




When you see your Mother in your
Lover’s eyes you are granted
A wish:  Come to
Or run aground on this ageless
Earth; We have
borrowed our Essence from
Some divine Source -- it
Hurts Us here, in
The gut;  we tumble
Through vast clouds ironing
Out our Smiles as if
On loan from
Some secret Silence unabated
But serene -- the Grinding
ache of a long leisure
Unsteady and foreclosed -- Who
would proclaim an
Angel’s whim Surfacing from
The tide?  Are
We alone in this, our Certitude?
The poppies bloom
and the wild grass preens
there, surely shifting
in the wind; Why do you
hold your Lips there, buoyant
with a kiss?
Which needle is sharp enough
to pierce your skin?  The hurting
abrasion of a skinned knee
says all that needs be said; these
icons glowing
in the air lift our bodies wholly floating
in celestial spheres
Unnoticed; how can
your mind unwind itself
and, looking backward, proclaim
its innocence?  We who are wise
with incongruity
last just long enough
to spear a fish
with our bamboo pole --

For My Father

For My Father


Ariadne Auf Naxos was
his favorite Opera -- he loved
playing Chopin Mazurkas
and Bach suites -- he
was a gardener of tomatoes
and Cantaloupes, a keen
observer of his garden, a
tiller of rich soil, a
stitcher of sutures when I
was wounded; he saved
Lolita, our Brooklyn Cat
from the wheel of
the exercycle, he came
to me in my illness
and with compassion guided
me to health, always
visiting me when I was sick; I
can see him playing the
flute in the Sunlight there
where we played
flute and guitar duos -- he
always made a point
to comment on my paintings
and encourage my art -- I think
of his love for my Mother, as
Hamlet said, "So loving to my Mother
he might not beteem the winds of
Heaven visit her face too
roughly";  And he
loved my brother and me,
nurturing our interests and desires,
exposing us to great art and music -- I
adjusted his head
on his pillow there near his passing
and held his hand as
he watched The Cooking Channel, this
chef and baker of scrumptious cakes
and heavenly brownies -- though he
couldn't speak at the end I
know he loved us and I love
him still as I believe he is
still with me
in spirit and Soul --

Post Life

Post Life


My crime is not
a juvenile crime, it
is a crime of
numbers oppressing us
with their
way wisdom and Sudden Solace; --
i have seen too much
to not acknowledge its strength
and Proper Wisdom --
Where do we start, here
in this Ministering Silence, here
where we can Abate
with Solemn Justice -- our
Eyes glued heavenward
in their Ascent, the
exact Measure
inches and miles
here Glowing, now Worth
our Structured glances
at glowing Embers
in the Ashcan; -- why
then would we stop
to greet You, old
friend -- you who would
dance on fire
as it intends the
Macerated Union
of Electroshock and Wan
perusal
Our home is one
of a bursting
Silence; a kind of Vain
retribution of
twirling colors, tri-partite,
on the Flag
our blood the blood
of Soldiers mute and dying
Where do we go from here
now that all of the children
are growing up -- and
how do we spend our Time when
nobody
gives us a damn -- hot collars
and staid sentences
groveling in the Mist
beckon to Us
as from a Distance
unheard above before
now when the iron Clock
sends its fury of
calm solicitude --