If I have to explain my poetry
it becomes
another instruction manual
and God knows we have enough
of them already.

dead doe on the baked prairie grass,
buzzards circling overhead

we're in lawn chairs, downing Buds,
waiting for the feeding to begin

but Donny is impatient, expecting
the birds to dine on his schedule

NOW, this very second, while they
are riding the currents above

watching, waiting to see if we move
closer to our ****

Donny curses them: **** dumb
birds, I shot that deer for you

he shoots at the kettle, but they continue
long loops, unperturbed

Donny again cusses the buzzards
and shoots the doe again

as if killing her twice will hasten
the descent of the birds

Donny complains sweat is stinging
his eyes

he pours the last of our water over
his head and removes his shirt

near sundown we are out of beer
and Donny is asleep

one by one the birds land, until the wake
is feasting before me

talons, beaks at work, tugging, tearing;
the eyes the appetizers it seems

I don't wake Donny, though I know he will be mad
for missing this meal

hungry as he was for a blood mass, but,
I'll let my brother sleep

while the shadows of skillful sculptors  
grow longer on the plain

and the fawn becomes a crimson work
of art Donny would never appreciate

Do not dream too loudly
You may awaken your conscience

                                        By Phil Roberts

Pains gauging  
           emotions...

Looking across the room

my pain relief...