my first worm
I thought
it was being
dragged

I was just a boy

it was just
worm
like

/ stillness
has it always
been
genetic

/ the context of god, the deadpan

birth
of son...

/ nowhere’s

by design
butterfly

paint
with fire
the funny bone

the fence…

stray thing
from dog’s
ashtray

I have no idea, really.
I am a Northman; my blood is
Used to leaders

Of a different kind.
My heart and efforts placed
Before strong wills and

Absent egos.
All for the best of the tribe.
A fan of no human,

No single lie forgiven.
No hidden agenda  
Either.

When the longest spear of
Ridicule is thrown, make sure
No one raises

A shield strong enough to
Give Donald time to
Duck.

I ask myself, observing the
Battles of the infants, are there any
Grown-ups here

At all?
We're dealing with the fate of our
Children.

So much more our flesh and
Blood than anything
Animated.

There's a jukebox,
in my mind or yours,
and it plays my song --
or, maybe, it's for you.
And it says what I
never could say, which is
that I am very sorry.

I thought of how I was --
or how we were --
which was not as good
as we had hoped for.
You protected yourself
from remorse and I was
fearfully unapologetic.

You were, and, probably,
still are a cold *****, and I've
been a ******* for years.
Your nose was so crooked,
it could run for office, and
my head was -- and still is --
really big, which is fitting,
considering my ego, and
ironic, since I'm borderline
mentally-*******-*******.

There's an eroding jukebox
and its so confrontational,
due to feeling inferior,
unrecognized, and without
a responsible purpose.

The music from the machine
flows like rushing thoughts,
and the thoughts say:

I sit and write,
I don't mind you
when I don't know you.

Some people are roots,
meant to help with stability,
but you are a branch,
meant to offer a new view,
but also meant to fall off,
maybe, killing whomever
catches you next.

glow from the back light
stretches shadows into dark places
a coat threatens

there's nothing there but
a line that is precise
my shoulder disappears into

the ink canvas
a possum's claws gripping
a trunk

and in the distance
the air thinner
a jet echoes across the sky

the end of a cigarette
another last puff
jonquils stand proud

their night scent
sweetens the breeze
the moon is a

dependable sliver
shining patches away
the glow from windows

Your family home
has been sold
to the cultured,
the old vultures
feeding on the garden
thick with rabbits
and your father's dead
daughters, you sleep
in a pickup, tired
of work near the water,
fond of the instant,
you travel through
the country you know,
farm long forgotten,
the word free written
in red ******* your arm.

the boy
is today
a bloodhound
tracking
the lone
acolyte
of his mother’s
handprints.  as another,

he once
led
a horse
to a woman’s
watermark...      

/ give suicide someone to widow