why do blackbirds
leave so many brown droppings
on my white mailbox, riveted
to a red painted post, planted
in green Bermuda grass, by
a gray asphalt road, under
a baby blue eye sky

the highway on which you escape
has a placard, green with destinations:
90 miles, 140

the 50 asphalt measures between the two
raw with hope, or despair, depending on who is there, flying past stubborn mesquite, doomed steers, and sagging shacks with graveyard stories

you always return,
not having found what
you never lost

the sign coming back
on the same tarred trail
tells how many there are, of you,
one hundred thousand, six hundred, forty two
though you may be only one who knew
you departed, maybe

tomorrow another you
will crank the engine and turn the wheel,
accelerate while you still can, until your gas
burns out, or the road rips a bald tire,
a ruptured reminder you can't
leave it all behind

broad daylight, a narrow highway...
what brought you there, sans your sour nocturnal song?
a racing rabbit I couldn't see
but you could smell?

and could you tell
how close my bumper
came to you when you scampered
across the road?

you had to feel
the wind of my wake
and hear the heavy hum
my tires make

though that did not signal
a close call with death to you;
only a sound you couldn't decipher,
and a tickling of hackle hairs

how delightful to be unawares
of the fickle sickle of mortality
that could have chopped you to pieces
on a hot stretch of asphalt

perhaps
we were not meant to take this trail alone
perhaps we were

a few inches too far right
on the ledge--half the width of my foot
and I suppose I fell

and here I am, fine,
though I can't move my left leg or right arm
blood is in both my eyes

gravity's curse carried me here
and is channeling this scarlet stream,
from wherever it began,
into my field of vision

which, though red clouded,
holds the base of a pine, boulders
as big as buffalo, and a black bird

a crow I suspect, soon
to be joined by his brethren--to enjoy
the feast of me

my pain wanes, as do thoughts
someone will find me in this steep ravine
a hundred meters below the trail
two long miles from the road

perhaps
we weren't meant to do this alone
but I did, and I am here,
alone

save for the crow
and I can't help but wonder
if my eyes will be open when the birds
begin their work

or if greedy buzzards
will join them, to take my
flesh from bone

the pain wanes
I am sleepy, the lone crow
now a ******

their eyes are open
mine feel heavy--perhaps
I have the answer

closed

her husband
was not named Schrödinger  
though many days they did not know
if the cat was dead or alive  

now and then  
an offering, usually a small sparrow,
was found on the porch, and she complained
not once of mischievous mice  

from her kitchen window,
hunched over a ***, or mixing lemonade,
she would spot the black and white creature,
(who never was given a name, not even by three farm sons)  
stalking imagined prey across the yard,  
under the swing set, or in the corner  
by the white picket fence    

she could remember the day  
the neighbor brought two kittens,
asking her to choose--it was snowing lightly
she chose the smaller of the two  
the civil thing to do

she rarely saw
when it lapped up the milk she left,
or licked clean the plate with sardines  
but she knew it was he, taking a light repast,
a sabbatical from great mysterious hunts
in the green barn, or by the cellar door  

the boys were all in school then,
full of pink color, noise, and often
covered with rich dirt  

one by one they left…
pneumonia took the youngest
a day when the cat sat, statuesque,
by their black 1940 Ford    

the eldest
disappeared on a Saturday, into a lake
where large mouth bass were plentiful
and the waters clean, until his friends saw him dive
into the depths, not to be seen again before Tuesday,  
when his bloated body decided to come up for air and light  
the same day she saw the cat skitter up the lone oak
in the front yard  

the middle, her most quiet  
said goodbye from the bus depot,
saluting them as he turned to the bus door  
a year to the day before he was shot through the throat
on some horrid hunk of rock named “Iwo Jima”  
the cat was nowhere to be found that day  
but she swore she heard him meowing
all the night after they put her baby
in the silent soil  

her husband got the cancer
and drifted off on a Christmas eve
to some pasture she saw in the snowy sky
when they put him in the ground, the cat  
made no sound, though she saw him
faintly, moving in some faraway  
fallow field, following his own
soundless dreams

it was a formal affair, amaranth napkins
folded neatly in laps

everyone clapping in unison; an obligatory
percussion of pink palms

when we left I asked you
if you enjoyed yourself

your terse "I guess" was predictable,
even though you invited me

under halogen haze, I watched you
distance yourself with every step

until you turned to me to say,
"I meant to end this before today"

I knew you would say this as soon as we entered
this man made sea of light

and saw black waves undulate around you,
cast by your perfect gown of white

he sits on the curb
all twelve years of him,
waiting to be a teen

when he'll have to pay
adult price for a movie ticket
or bus pass

he usually has no cash
for either; but wishing and waiting
are art forms to him

he's learned to move
the brush of time slowly on life's palette
while he watches others whizzing by

on their store-bought skateboards
and Huffy ten speed bikes, while he has
only one gear for two feet

which now are clad in Keds
from the thrift store, and planted
firmly on the cement

by the drain gutter,  where he
last saw his favorite possession, a Super Ball,
get ****** into the sewer

when the storm ended, he yanked
off the manhole cover and crawled into
the dark, but the ball was gone forever

when he came back into the street,
yet lamenting his round loss, more boys
on bikes buzzed by

their circles safely spinning
on asphalt, far from the gutter and curb where
he once again sat--wishing, waiting

Baltimore, 1965

feed corn in field for weeks
to fatten them up for the ****

from stands of live oak, hackberry
they would come, fawn and doe

leaving tracks in morning dew
to and from the scattered grain

I slept through their feeding, then
followed their trail into the copse

where I found fawn gutted
by the mythic mountain lion

I did not believe existed,
until that morn

I pulled the carcass to the edge of the wood,
in view of the stand

where I waited with rifle and starlight scope
for the great cat

who came with the waning crescent moon
and did not know I shot him

through his red river heart
as he crouched to finish his meal

(Cross Timbers, Texas, 1991)

I watch them
walk in: slow, not quite *****

white beard on one,
double chin on another

I estimate their seasons--an
appraiser assessing damages

of gravity and grief, cells
dividing, multiplying without relief

I was a lanky, lurching teen
when they were yet in diapers

soon, they'll be clad
in such humble attire again

I'll be there waiting, already
accustomed to such leaking humility

through her window, she watched
sun shafts through the trees, a transient
tapestry on her potholed lane

a half dozen eggs sat beside her bowl
ready to be beat for the scramble; a half dozen
hours after her street was alight with noise

first the pernicious pop of the zip guns
then the cops '38s; then the howling of the
sirens, the howling of the survivors

mostly Chico's mama and sister
who watched him gunned down, and tried to plug
his half dozen holes with their hands

the street doesn't remember, she thought,
even with a biography of black blood dried
in its cracks and crevices

if it did, surely it would protest, or
make a solemn sound when the dawn shed
all that honest light on dark death

she cracked the eggs, put them
in the hot lard, not bothering with the bowl
breaking yolks blindly in the black skillet

my stylus on the keyboard

is...

a vulture venturing from q to m, scavenging the whole way

spelling not a kind word, leaving a cyber trail of blood

mockingbirds rarely roost; when they do, they typeset self loathing, for what it's worth

mostly mourning doves make nest there, pecking keys, punctuating words with their sad songs

deaf as I am, I still hear them,
see their blue tales

not yet has an owl visited with its mythic wisdom, but I know one day it will call my name...

not a minute too soon, amidst this fluttering digital madness

those folks hired white help,
maybe a Mex to tend to the yards
but they let old lady Latty wash
their soiled sheets, bath towels
and undergarments

they sent out their fine clothes
for that new process called dry cleaning,
a magic Latty would never fathom--how
you gonna clean anything without water
steaming, lye and labor of love

but Latty knew those folks
whose ****-stained drawers
she was scrubbing had more secrets
than money, and she knew to keep
lips God gave her closed

for nobody need know about
the joy juice that was on the sheets
when the man of the house was
gone, and the towels covered
with the seed part of that

weren't none of Latty's business
what sins were seeping under the
cracks of those fine wood doors, or
what other rich as Croesus gents were
walking softly on the polished floors

Latty was off Mondays, but
not on the Sabbath, for it was
often the eve of that holy day
when the most soiling was done
and that didn't bother her none

for Sundays the folks was mostly
gone to church, and whatever sinning
was to be had took its rest like the Lord did,
unless sitting in a pew with a man
you never loved counts as such

Tulsa, 1908

he stares
he covets
he loves
he hates

not only the elixir,
its anesthetizing allure,
but also its vessel

in which he can see
reflected, his hands,
his mouth

though not his eyes;
they reveal too much:

his last human touch
lambs on blood red fields of war
his mother gasping her last breath
his stillborn son

in this parley
his eyes cannot belie  
he hears screaming voices
in an empty, stone
quiet room    

the glass, then, will win;
‘tis an unfair balance; its perfect
symmetry, its solemn silence
the almighty alchemy it holds  

against him--his ghosts,
his hands, his mouth, all ready
to concede defeat

what remains here, after you,
makes sound only the finest instruments
can detect--waves
from deep space

the December blast outside
a summer breeze compared to dead air
in this heated tomb

quilts you left smell of us
wrapped in two of them, I'm still
shivering, staring at the
door you shut,

surprised
it did not shatter,
so bound by ice

he poured the remaining Cheerios
into the bowl, then covered them with milk
he need not sniff to know was old,
stale, curdling

still he ate, for he knew without
this sour meal, he would tire on his
mile journey to the bus stop, and
not concentrate in school

his red brick haven, where there
was always running water, porcelain
toilets, adults who didn't reek of
of moonshine, **** and smoke

there he could read under electric
lights, watch movies about the moon
and strange rockets that would one day
blast a man all the way there

another cleaner world he imagined:
a sterile, silent white orb, pocked by boulders
bigger than mountains, craters with names
like Mare Serenitatis, a sea of serenity

that is where he wanted to be
on the dark side of the moon, where
grave gravity looses its reins a bit, hidden
from earth's billions of eyes

and when he dared reveal this
wish in the ears of his elders, they
would whisper among themselves,
saying he was an old soul

but barely double digits, he knew
this could not be so--for his body was only
tired from toil, and as far as his soul,
he knew it had no age, not in years

not here on this wretched third stone
from the sun, nor in a crater as old as time
waiting for him to escape the bounds of earth,
and the bitter milk of morning

Bell County, Kentucky, 1964

cracked an elbow making a tackle,
ruptured a kidney throwing a body block;
my less than illustrious football
career curtailed

so I chose to run:
an active verb--organs, bones,
are nouns, things to be damaged,
broken, frozen in almighty time

which slowed my sprint to a
jog, then my jog to a hurried hike
on my arid prairies and around
my wooded lane

where the young neighbors eye
me zipping by, deep in thought--who
is that old man pondering parts of speech?
don't let the children listen to him

for I know they have their own bones
yet to break, their own journey to make,
from fanciful fields of fame, to cruel knowledge
nothing remains the same--nouns decay

I'll keep walking wild as long as I can;
I recall making the last tackle, that final
fated block--those nouns now long gone, and no
adjectives can bring them back

in a stadium,
in the nosebleed seats,
a lemon rind moon was all the light we had
when the city lost power

the crowd murmured, impatient
for the carnage to continue, players knelt
on the turf; their coach-gods commanded,
Let their be light!

I rose to leave, when I heard them
a canine symphony from jackals who escaped
the ranchers' sights, the dumb traps,
taunting us, the light seekers

who knew not how to comport
ourselves without electric diversion, without
staged battles, while they roamed the dark,
snouts angled towards a charcoal sky

sharing song and scent, sentient though not
like we, but content to be yip yapping in the autumn night
while we lamented the lack of light, and yearned yet
for different blood

I found you in parks,
camped out in libraries
bus depots

we shared road stories,
****, food, and whatever we had
stuffed in our pants, forbidden
by the man

you came from everywhere
and were going nowhere--except
California

a million dreams after
Steinbeck's hordes plodded west,
desperate to find the fruit

but you were in search
of grapes without the wrath:
there weren't any

you came and went  
some succumbing to the needle
others to the bottle, and more to the winds
which whisked you to another park bench,
another all night diner, in another
dead, gray city

I stuck around,
earned, or stole, greenback dollars
built red brick houses, had children and wives  
and almost forgot your scent

now, mostly when the lights are out,
I add the years of your evaporating biographies
and realize so few of you remain,
to walk our flat earth

on the puke and blood painted
walk in front of a Juarez *******
sat a blind mendicant,

his cup half full with pesos, pennies
and a grand FDR dime or two

beside him a cur loused in lassitude,
perhaps the personal, impotent Cerberus
for this den of five dollar iniquity

sixteen I was, an acute expatriate
from a drunken El Paso house home

free to roam the streets of old Mexico,
so long as I didn't wake any Policia
or **** on the wrong curb

an empty belly and nascent love of drink swung my moral compass
from wobbly to dead down

and I filched the eyeless beggar's blue tin

he couldn't see, but the jingle jangle of his coins sliding
into my pocket filled his old ears

"ladron, ladron, cabron, " he screamed

thief, thief, *******

his words trailed me down the alley into an avenue of neon noise,
until I slipped into a bar, nouveau riche

my ***** was better than a buck so I ordered two beers
and a double tequila

feeling fine until I smelled the dung of the dog,
scribed penance in the grooves of my Keds

olfactory justice for stealing from the blind; a small price to pay
for the riches of drunkenness, the sweet taste of oblivion

(Juarez, Mexico, 1965)

spikes on graph paper
a biography of the earth's
distracted driving

masses merging with another:
hostile takeovers of stone; skyscrapers crumble,
choking apocalyptic dust in their wake

then tsunamis soar,
a fierce baptismal; my mountain home
spared the deluge though

inside, the family's china escaped
from its cabinet, only to be gravity's meal
and shatter in shards myriad

one serving dish survived,
flesh from the lamb filled it, steaming
only a fortnight ago

we'll buy new plates, ones
that will remain in silent stacks, until
another festive event

or until the seismograph records
another jagged jump, scribing one more tale
of earth's lamentable tensions released

I see his pick up in the yard--the grass is dead
from the heat anyway

he is nowhere to be found, except
passed out on the seat

with one of his feet touching the turf
the other still in the truck

afraid if it joins its partner on solid soil
it won't be a happy marriage

he is my child--all quarter century of him
and he won't bring in the paper

I am sure he rolled his truck on top of it...to protect me
from the news of an awful world

I don't hide under rocks
the way they say we do

I find a cool linoleum floor
in a condemned house

and hope it ain't got too many cracks
or no rat will come while I'm asleep

a popped fire hydrant can be a gift
from white gods

but as soon as they come twist it shut
I dry fast and slither off to shade

even if it's behind a dumpster:
Damon's got good trash

had me half a cold rib eye
from that heap last night

and a good nap 'til the city come to
dump the bin this rude dawn

now I'll be on the prowl but only long
enough to beg for some silver alms

only long enough to get red wine and find the next spot out of the sun

for these August streets are too hot
and make my cool blood boil

the last victim of polio;
she took up brush and canvas
and began a portfolio of one

her singular subject,
a sagging pear in the neighbor's yard,
threatening the cedar fence daily

and daily she would add strokes
sometimes only a vein on a blue Monday  
a leaf in a weekend, and a chunk
of trunk on a winded Wednesday

over summer greens she would
double dab fall's golds, yellows, or russet
if snow had begun to drift

seasons, years made their circles  
until her hands became stiff, her eyes
filled with film--then, she only sat by the palette,
silent, reverent to a lifelong friend  

when she passed, the work
was nearly done, missing only half a fiery sun,
yet the sky was a glorious blue
by chance the final hue

of an image altered  
a hundred score, by a hand
that would have done so
a thousand more

I couldn’t manage a lotus position,
so I tried you, my bare feet reaching
for the stained ceiling of my apartment  
sitar music and stale **** smoke  
there with me  

like the dwellings
of a million mid-century bohemians  
who tried transcendence long
enough to get hungry    

when I now try you,  
Salamba Sarvangasana,  
I get a bit dizzy--spinning
a reaping reminder I have passed
nearly sixty-four years  

looking up, at cleaner plaster  
I no longer hear the music; the grass is gone,
replaced  by fumes perhaps more beguiling  

then I fall  
never able to pronounce your name  
ever aware my feet could not remain
airborne forever

the boy had never seen a rabbit so still
only its fur moved in the cruel wind

he pulled an arrow from his quiver
and took aim at the cottontail

his hands shook from the cold, but the
arrow struck its mark, almost

the shaft lodged itself in the creature's hind leg
now the rabbit hobbled in the deep snow

leaving a thin red trail on the white blanket until
the boy caught his prey and snapped its neck

fresh hot meat for the night's meal
his father would be proud

almost back to the village, the boy spotted the wolf,
white, nearly invisible in the drifts

he drew another arrow, but then  remembered
what the elders had said

a white wolf in winter may not be harmed
and a gift must be proffered

the boy sheathed his arrow, and lay the rabbit
in the snow, the animal's blood still warm

the wolf and the boy watched each other
and a great gust swelled

the boy turned away from the blast, the wolf;
behind him he heard the howls

a synchronicity, the wail of the wolf wedded to the wind
a marriage of flesh and the elements

the two were one in the boy's ears, until he found
his lodge and warmed his hands with fire's gift

two of them came in from the night
into the neon light of a 7-11, where they found her
behind the counter, guarding  
the register's cash

with her life
which they took, because, after her trembling hand
handed them $138, one of them, "just freaked"
when he saw her face

and then shot her, in her throat,
and again between two holy *******,
after she landed on the linoleum floor,
12 feet 3 inches from the door

through which they returned to the night,
though only long enough to find the Whataburger
exactly one mad mile away, where they stopped
because the shooter was hungry

he ordered a number one, with cheese
but his accomplice had no appetite--he asked
for coffee, black, and used coins (not stolen)
he had to pay

when they confessed to the killing
even the accomplice found it chilling, the shooter
could eat red flesh and fresh hot fries, while scalding coffee
was all his partner could abide

crags, cold and gray--tedious time
has little worn their edges

grandfather moved a thousand his four score years
in these emerald moors

father too, before the war, when he left the rocks
for others to move, the sheep for others to sheer

grandmother never forgave him for leaving;
the queen had not asked for his body or soul

in the blood red fields of the Somme, he never missed the place

nor his mum, whose heart gave out when she heard
he died in a French trench, of the Spanish flu

after that, grandfather let others tend to his flock
and moved not another stone

now thirty and five, back from my own foul war
I walk these pastures with only misty memories of them:

father, son and steed, dragging boulders
across dew drenched grass, to walls that yet stand
but now guard only the dead

Crossgates, Wales, 1946

the curs keep on coming
the crowds keep on chanting

the arena is not grand
emperors do not watch

as blood sprays the plywood
walls thrown up to pen these pits

in their epic struggle to
keep blackness from overcoming them

the spitting spectators
long ago lost their souls

now there is only survival
of the meanest bull in the ring

and the resentful surrender
of a few bucks, if their dog loses

and the removal of the dead  
while the blood dries, and the next beasts snarl

the roller’s creamy caress of the wall,  
a few brush strokes in close corners, trim
requiring the greatest finesse of all    
at that art I am past master,
but hell, it’s mostly plaster    

I would love to create a corner café  
its neon lights a beacon in the night  
for those in insomnia’s grip  

or fashion a woman sipping coffee
from her favorite cup, in her favorite easy chair
finicky feline purring in her lap--and I don’t
even like cats

Hopper, Munch, a thousand more
whose canvasses speak a million words
I would trade all but one of the years I have left  
to make palettes scream, or sit silent
in their beautiful despair  

instead I’ll crank out “Times New Roman” art  
black and white characters without sense or scent,  
sensing the reader will yearn for less, the oil’s
shallow relief so much more fecund
than my “deep” words  

‘tis not to be, for me  
I will have to settle for Sherwin Williams, Benjamin Moore
and try my best to not spill too much on the floor

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

tucked away in milky grey folds
of a blanket she cannot shed, bled dry
of hope, she hides

not once in this blue moon
has she smiled, made love, or
had Haagen Dazs, her last
drug of choice

for eons, she hasn’t moved
a muscle, but inside, the command center
is writing recipes she won't  
have the appetite to cook

if she could will herself
to sleep, to abandon forever
circadian clocks, she would

but that won't happen--she
would need to be truly alive
to really die

I wrote about you last night
when there were supposed to be
a million falling stars

clouds got in the way
but hell, those weren't really suns
falling to their death

would have been fitting
if they were, for the cliche is apt:
you being my light of day

and you did fall from the sky,
though not through the firmament at night
with others tracing your trails

you jumped solo from the
GW Bridge, on a clear Thursday
at a low high noon

your obit was politically polite, not
describing your terse flight, or the bones
the Hudson's waters crushed

so I wrote about you last night
a missive to me--I asked what the Times did not,
what was your final thought

when you stepped from the rail:
did you see your whole life fly before your eyes
or just sky, water and the helpless bridge

between reality and imagination
between literal and figurative, the thin line,
is not there when I tuck my grandson in,  

all six wise years of him, and assure him
I’ll keep watch  to make sure  no dinosaurs come
and ****** him away in the night

but instead of feigned fright, he proclaims,
there are no more dinosaurs, for a meteor came,
and “****,” says he, they were all gone  

I don’t bother to tell him, some were incinerated  
in the blink of an eye, while millions of their cousins suffered
a slow, gray, choking fate in a forever winter  

still, he is content that I was there
to bid him goodnight, to turn out the light, and wage war
with whatever creatures remained to roam,

or stalk the streets outside  
his room, or any other gathering gloom  
in the spirit or in the flesh

when the shining glass looks back at us
like a stalled rerun of our personal opera
of soap, and the technicolor turns to charcoal gray
we know we are coming to the end of our day

and we look to other faces,
and their “windows to the soul,”
for a reflection of who we are, or
were; they cast an obligatory glance
or do an avoidance dance, when
we give an imploring stare
to see if they know,
we are still there

each day fewer shine bright
or glitter with glee and we wonder
what happened to me, the me they saw
and sought after in the colored world
of before

others disappear into their own dark night
having long endured their inevitable plight
of the cold mirror’s still, shattering view
and disappearing eyes of all but a few
who see us yet faintly in the light
that remains

they dine there Saturdays;
once the dire discussion of
which entrees to order is over, there
is mostly silence between them

and a candle that burns

on every table--wax trails
on the wine bottles which
cradle them; creating a grand grotto
of paraffin they take turns fondling  

gone are those nights

when their hands locked
across the gingham, their eyes
seeing through the fire, blind to
any shadow it cast on the other

the light remains,

though now they see
only beneath it, a biography of
burnt offerings on the wine's empty
flask,  a meal soon to be forgotten

"instantly" doesn't apply
though we use the word to describe
an eternity that passes
before one’s eyes

in the flash flesh takes
to surrender, when a bullet passes
through a heart, a skull is crushed
in a head-on collision  

let me pause a hand an "instant,"
to make the car key turn, or the foot fall
from the curb a momentous moment,
later

altering all destiny, by chance,
if I had the chance, to be master of a tiny cogwheel,
of one machine--I don't need omnipotence,
only the reins of time

he dragged his feet
her veil scared him
she was not smiling

she bent over
the ******* box
he could not see
what was inside

her lips moved
but he did not hear her
he heard the big people whispering,
talking softly

like they usually did
when they were not singing
in this place, this room
with high ceilings, colored windows
and benches he thought
they called pews

he couldn't see him,
his daddy, though many
said he was there

he wondered what
was in the black box
and when his mother began
to walk away, he saw her hand print
on the surface, but no thumb

he dragged his feet again
she pulled his hand harder
he wiggled free and went back
to the box

Uncle Roy picked him up
to carry him down the aisle; when he did
he thought he saw his daddy asleep
in the box

and his mother's hand print
was still there, but now missing
*******

he knew that number
two--he looked back a final time
and saw other big people at the box,
walking, looking, perhaps being quiet
to not wake Daddy

he wept, T.S. Eliot
for he lost a poem he penned
by hand--a piece that called itself
The Waste Land

in which he declared
April was the cruelest month
but he recalled little more, while scavenging
his memory for wily words

though I did not weep with him
I placed a light palm on his shoulder
to tell him I understood, for we all
lamented the loss of verse

phrases that came to us in dreams
lines that licked clean the inside of our skulls
words that repeated themselves, coming and going,
coming and going with each breath

first flight: your talons
in the grim grip of a teenager
belly filled with berries

dumped fast
in the back of an SUV,
long enough to find
a red brick nest

your guts quickly spilled
and you tossed in a black hole
for a long night with other avian creatures
black, big as pigs, smelly as well

at sunrise the hole rolled
but only long enough for it to be clutched
by a moaning monster, toppled upside down
the pigs sliding into its guts

but the wind rescued you!
gave you recycled flight, a full day
and night, until my wiper blade snagged
your white wings at 70 MPH

I could have dumped you
in the bin at the next rest stop
but you had a different vision
of redemption

instead, I dropped you on the road                        
where you would wait, without protest,  
for another gust

two squirrels and one crane
on this baked plain, where the spare
prairie grasses give way to a creek fed
stubborn stand of mesquite
and hackberry

I saw them, but only after they
saw me: the furry tailed rodents
ran for the brush; the great grey crane
flapped but a few times to take flight
into the white glare of the sun

not one of them knows, nor cares
a peculiar alignment is about to occur
where a cold cratered rock--measely tide
master--will blot out a star, for a
photon funneled spec of time

they'll go about their business
as if only a cloud lingered a bit
above the flat world, changing
the hue of their grasses, while
it passes

billions of us will turn our eyes
to the skies, witness to an event
monumental, or so we math mongers
must believe; though not those creatures
I encountered under the same sun

he crawled from the slime
of the swamps, like a creature formed
before god made light

coated solid with the muck of the earth,
the blood of those they slaughtered, and that
of his own brethren--though the feverish foam
in these ancient paddies had wedded forever
the sanguine sap of them all

the sole survivor
to tell the old tale--the fable of light
giving way so eagerly to dark

who was he to tell the story
spared the wrath of the flesh
what of those who lay behind him
now forever silenced--had not they earned
the right to be permanent patrons of light

who was he to speak of these things
but it must be, for in the beginning someone
had to utter, with thunderous certainty, the
greatest promise ever broken:
let there be light

six and one I saw, doubtless  
others were in the reeds    

the seven sensed I was there, and made their
pyramid wakes on the pond’s surface  

before taking flight to flee from me, a two-legged,
wingless, clumsy giant  

what fat, finite clump of cells in a mallard’s mind
commanded webbed feet to stir, wings to flap?  

somewhere, deep in pink folds in
their perfectly sculpted skulls  

hides a memory of what we flat earth
walkers hath wrought  

skewering them on crude sticks, roasting their flesh
on ancient, mystic pyres

I see the barrel at the temple
feel the nickel sized circle on the skin
hear the loud last report
after the trigger pulled

daily, this scene scrolls in the head
a secret, e pluribus unum,  one
no other players read
in their scripts

I don't write theirs, only
mine, and they have their own
clandestine plans, their own
scenes at the edge of the
abyss

sometimes, I see them
fall, screaming, or silent
until they land among the other
bones

I don't know, I will never
see that place with my eyes
for I lack the courage to jump
or squeeze the trigger

no
I will find a way to sleep
and never wake up, let others wonder what lines
I read in my final hours hiding from the sun,
or why I chose pills and potions
instead of the gun