nobody loses all the time

i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added

my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when

my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner

or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol

and started a worm farm)

I don't know how it started

But it's an annual event

But I don't think that an egg hunt

Is the best way to present

The story of our saviour

Chocolate eggs you go and find

I don't think that's the image

That the church wants in our mind

Every year since I was little

Our family made a choice

Either host the Easter Dinner

Or go hunting for eggs and toys

This year we chose the egg hunt

It was better than the meal

But our egg hunt went all wonky

In fact it all was so surreal

Most years twenty people

Showed to hunt about the yard

so setting out some easter eggs

Didn't seem so hard

But this  year, thanks to facebook

People showed up by the score

When all was done the count was

One hundred twenty four.

With that many people coming

A family meeting then took place

One hundred twenty four people

This was way off base

With Uncles, Aunts and cousins

Grandparents and the rest

some new plans would be needed

to execute this test

I thought about logistics

There was only so much yard

To run an easter egg hunt

Was going to be hard

I checked the list of children

Eighty seven kids or so

But I said that we would host it

So I could not tell them no

I called up all the Uncles

Told them come around to plan

They all showed up as suggested

All fourteen, to a man

We needed eggs and then some

Chocolate, mallow...every kind

We had to hit the stores fast

We had to buy up every kind

Baskets, ribbons, bows and stuff

stuffed rabbits, all they had

We had near ninety children

And we could not have them sad

We drank and set agendas

We all planned out our attack

They would all come out before hand

And the goodies, we'd unpack

The women met as well though

Dying eggs would be their task

They got 100 dozen large eggs

and some colouring to mask

The last time plans were handled

on a scale as big as this

Was on D-Day for the Allies

And we knew that didn't miss

We had crepe paper for streamers

Balloons and chocolate logs

but the one thing we'd forgotten

We also had twelve dogs

We had to keep them busy

While we figured out just how

We were going to hide all of our presents

And we had to figure NOW!

We called up to the kennel

To book them all in for the night

But, they didn't have the space so

We'd have to make do with our plight

Two days before Good Friday

All the parents showed to meet

We would plan and hide the goodies

We would all be so discreet

We would hide the eggs on Friday

While the kids all went to pray

Then we'd come back here  for dinner

And we'd finish Saturday

It was easy, a no brainer

We would pull it off....with ease

It would take great execution

And the children would be pleased

On Friday night they all arrived

And were given tasks we all could handle

We all went out to the yard to hide

The eggs, by lighted candle

We stuck them up in trees and then

In bushes by our gnomes

We hid them in the veggie patch

We hid them in our home

When finished we'd put eggs and toys

Of every shape and size

We were all so ****** tired

We could barely blink our eyes

The next day all our work  was shot

When we went outside to see

That night after we'd finished

Some raccoons came out of the tree

twelve hundred eggs and four raccoons

Two skunks and nineteen rats

Decided that they like out smorgasbord

And to them then...that was that

Hard boiled eggs of every size

For them to come and eat

After surveying the damage

We vowed we'd not be beat

We set to work and dyed more eggs

another nine hundred in all

We sent all of the mothers out

To buy gifts at the mall

We'd lay them out before the hunt

We didn't care when they got hid

We had to have an easter game

For eighty seven kids

We strung the streamers through the house

We wrapped the willow tree

It looked just like "The Party Place"

Had blown up...just for me

We put balloons up everywhere

The kids would be surprised

Uncle Jack would wear a bunny suit

It was a good disguise

With lots of work and alcohol

We'd get this egg hunt done

And come hell or come high water

The children would have fun

On Sunday they came back from Church

And I want you all to know

That we had a real nice dinner

For we overlooked the snow

While sitting in the church pews

Hearing tales of Easters Past

A storm came in so vicious

And it came in really fast

By the time we'd reached the garden

There was one foot on the ground

It had snuck up on us quickly

And it didn't make a sound

So the egg hunt never came about

We took them out for lunch

It'll be our last time trying this

At least that is my hunch

If it comes down to a choice now

To ever utilize my home

For an egg hunt here at Easter

I won't answer the phone!

1.

Minds break apart at midnight,
piece together in dreamless sleep.

Robert Lowell poaches pen-and-ink
drawings for Life Studies.
Sylvia Plath dons Ariel’s red dress,
but loses Ariadne’s thread.  

Lowell raises For the Union Dead,
mythic monument to his family’s best.
Pigeons decorate it with their ***** mess.
Plath pins a ******* to her chest —  
shockingly pink —
and stands beside the kitchen sink,

Stirring a *** of poet’s gruel.
Madness and death the golden rule
no artistry can break. Not even the careless
reader can take leave of these senses

Once they’re rendered on the page.
Confession doesn’t age well,
as Lowell knows oh so well,
 
unless it suggests more substantial fare,
say, a flannel bathrobe for him to wear
in a Boston psychiatric ward — if he dares.

There’s something wrong with his head.
Crown him Caligula; his lineage has fled.

“What does that have to do with me, Daddy?” Plath artfully whines.
“Fill the tulip jars with red water, not wine,” he replies.
“The bridegroom cometh. Turn off the oven.”
But it is too late. She has met her fate before it predeceases her.

Like a teacher’s pet, she bets her life on a recitation
of Daddy, a term of endearment,
a term of interment in a stark, loveless miscarriage,
a dark, masculine disparagement of her freedom. O Daddy dearest.

Lowell shoots up to salute the younger poet, guessing
she has given the year’s best reading by a girl in red dresses.

At this stage, what does it matter that his “mind’s not right”?
What can he do but give up his right to pray, as every insight
       slips away?

But no Our Father for Plath. For her, the Kingdom comes too late.
Colossal poetry cannot save; the poet raves and raves and raves
       into that dark night.
Turn off the oven, turn out the lights. Daddy, too, is not right.
 
2.

Blake fired his Proverbs of Hell
in the dull, damning kilns
of England’s Industrial Age.

A poet’s no sage, but Lowell earned
his wings when he doctored Blake’s phrase:
“I myself am hell.”

A stone angel directs his descent:

Fortune favors the bold.

Never discount the power of chance.

Affliction of the senses is a gift.

Invisible seeks invisible.

Darkness obscures our limits.

We carry darkness within us.

Anarchy breeds spirit.

Artistry breeds no merit.

Appropriate beauty, at all costs,
whether, man, beast or angel.

3.

Poetry births an artifact of words; we unearth them, and they adhere.
We bury them, and they fall flat — hollow sounds, futile splats,
       prehistoric grunts ground into the ground.

Bathed in lithium and alcohol, here bobs your calling, Robert:
Everything matters; nothing coheres.
Build a shell of a soul on this maxim, a notebook of negation.  
       Grind your axes.

Sanctuaries may crumble, gates may close. Press on. Press on.
Corkscrew your identity into the iambic line; rouse the reader to find
the misleading promise of Eternity in the sonnet, the sonnet,
       the endless sonnet.

For minds lost in madness, tree limbs dangle like kite tails in the wind. No one flies here anymore. Gather reddened kindling while ye may.

What exiles you from the ancients — Homer, Virgil and Horace —
springs from vision, not technique: You lack the requisite blindness.

Absence absents the soul. Here, now, forever, shimmers only presence,
only the present, only Presence: divine, human, animal, marmoreal.
       Skunks, sails, cars and pails. Sing on, O son of New England!

Day by day, failing all, fill your void with fiery
hieroglyphs of verse. Then call your duty done.
 
4.

Behold: You are not the favorite, after all, but Camus’ stranger,
trapped in the blinding sun, stumbling on the burning sand.

Only what dies in you endures.

“Is getting well ever an art,
or art a way to get well?”

The skunks scurry, scavenge and survive far too long for you to answer.

You lie down beside orange fishnets, facing the shore.
At midnight, you will dream of dreamless sleep.

There are skunks in there
every night burrowing
into the yawning parts
of my wife’s dream-filled mind.
Night by night, their numbers increase—
as black as her stare,
as pure as her smile.
Backs that bear the white-tipped
senses of God.
They float through as an endless
dark stream
that glistens with my motives,
and confirms my drunken pleasures—
beaming out the secrets of my every move,
my grief,
my thorns.

The truth
is a cage.
My mind
is my dungeon.

She says the skunks are the alcohol.
I say they’re the dogs.
She says maybe they’re everything.
And she was gone before I could move.

Midnight’s glowing solstice moon
From moonrise to moonset-
She feels, hears, sees
Magic, crickets, skunks, dew-

She’s summer.

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills

The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear

The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks

Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree

From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys

But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere

And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast

We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer

Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too

His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more

Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year


© All Rights Reserved

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills

The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear

The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks

Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree

From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys

But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere

And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast

We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer

Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too

His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more

Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year


© All Rights Reserved

Nobody Loses All The Time

nobody loses all the time

i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added

my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when

my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner

or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol

and started a worm farm)

—by ee cummings

Screeching tires, blinding lights, smashing glass.
The whole ordeal took maybe 5 minutes.
Drivers slow down to peek and observe
Then speed down the road.
But, when you’re laying there in the glass and noise.
It’s not the same.
The paramedics came.
Remain calm.
Breathe.
Don’t close your eyes.
Stay with us.8
Breathe.
The only thing I can think about is my license.
Two Words

***** Donor.

They’re missing from my ID.
I didn’t check the box.

***** Donor.

The paramedics are talking.
Mumbling.
They’re underwater.
That’s not good.

I want to be an ***** donor* I say.
They pause.
One moment.
Dave looks at me.
His name is embroidered on his uniform.
Is uniform the right word?

I want to be an ***** donor.
I say again.

It won’t come to that
Dave assures me.
His smile is weak.

***** Donor.

Write it down I say
Firm.
Dave shrugs and takes out his clipboard.
I watch him write
***** Donor.

I sigh, relieved.
Anything else?
Dave asks.
He looks at his partner
He’s covered in blood.
My blood.
That’s not good.

***** Donor.

Yes. I tell Dave.
He gets his pencil ready.
He smiles.
It’s half sincere.
He’s worried.
Last will and testament smile.
I want to be an
***** Donor.
Got that.
Dave says.
The lights are blinding.
I smell and taste metal.
That’s not good.
What to say?
Everything. I want to say everything.
I think of my mom
Clutched hands
White knuckles
Sitting, pacing, crying
The waiting room
Green and white, calming colors
She is red
Her face from lack of sleep
From crying
Stark against the calm walls.
I think of my mother and breathe.

Take everything you can.
Take my body
I don’t need it anymore.
Take it and tell my mother the
Good
It will do.
Take my feet
And tell my mother
About every mile they will walk.
Tell her they will dance in homes
To silly music
and skip through fields
And trudge through mud.
They will scale mountains
And swim through oceans.
They will burn on hot asphalt
And curl up in Satin sheets.
Take my feet.

Take my hands
And tell my mother
About every handshake
Every high five
Every hand they hold.
Tell her they will be covered in paint
And chocolate and dirt and clay.
My fingers will run through hair
And sand and silk.
They will give hugs and caresses
And love to show they understand.
Take my hands.

Take my eyes
And tell my mother
About everything they will see.
Tell her they will see
Sunrises and sunsets
Mountains, oceans, and airports.
They will sparkle with laughter
And shine with tears.
Tell her that someone will
Fall in love with them
And they will grow
Old and wise.
Take my eyes.

Take my ears
And tell my mother
About all what they will hear.
Tell her they will rock out at concerts
And hear lullabies sung for children.
They will find magic in the spoken word and will hear love and hate.
Tell her about every heart beat,
Sigh of content, and bolt of laughter
They will hear.
Take my ears.

Take my nose
And tell my mother
About everything it will smell.
Tell her it will catch wisps of
Perfume and Cologne
Mingling with coffee and bread
From a Paris café.
It will crinkle at the smell of skunks
But open wide at the smell of rose.
Take my nose.

Take my lips
And tell my mother
About every sweet kiss.
Tell her they will whisper
I love you
And really mean it.
They will stretch with laughter
purse with disdain
and never make a duck face.
They will speak slowly savoring
Every syllable of sound
And tumble fast over flirty quips
Take my lips.

Take my lungs
And tell my mother
About every breath of air they get.
Tell her they will feel crisp autumn winds
And heavy humid summer breezes.
They will heave and pant in laughter
And in despair.
They will catch and gasp and get the hiccups.
They will bellow leaving
No song unsung.
Take my lungs.

Take my heart.
Please take my heart
And tell my mother
About every single beat.
Tell her when it moves fast
Or slow.
Tell her it will be consumed
With passion
And blaze with ecstasy.
Tell her it will grow
And grow
And grow
And grow
Tell her it will never forget her.
Tell her it will give someone
A new start.
Please, take my heart.
Please take my heart.
Take my kidneys, liver, spleen, stomach, and appendix.
Whatever you need take it from me.

***** Donor.

I want to be an ***** donor
Because I want to live.

OHIO MY HOME

Ohio my childhood home
a simpler life
an innocent time
a place where corn fields go on for miles and miles
the fields wave and sway beckoning you
to make secret forts in their midst
the original corn maze
in there we eat cow corn
never thinking to ask
was it fresh or clean?
it was organic at its best

playing in the water down at the “crick”
no such worries of a chemical spill
no one got sick
no parents around
nobody drowned

tornadoes come by
what a scary thrill
mother nature at her worst
toppling trees each way
providing us a strange place to play
in between the branches
we made our mansions
safe maybe not...
but we played anyway

far from the city lights
we spend our nights
watching natural sights
fireflies glowing looking for love
the tree frogs are singing out for a mate
mother raccoons bring their young from the nest
skunks delight us with their odorous best

in an eerie alien fog
ufo’s hovering over the
tall trees in the front yard
all under the moons sight
as i close my eyes i can see
Ohio my memory home

They have become defiled
They have defiled the land

"It's so unfair," she said. "Is this a loving God
Who sanctions genocide?
Who commands His people to slay man, woman and child?
A nation condemned, not the first
An entire planet submerged
Heaven snatched away for disobedience
No, I will not tolerate such a Deity."

In dark caves the Canaanite altars drip with the blood of children
The stench of feces and foul ***** taints the air
Yellow pools glisten in torch light
**** drips from the walls, piles up in mounds scattered on the floor
Animals mill about, sniffing the carcasses of other beasts
Each one kept for a purpose, dead and alive
No golden calves here, only warm flesh unyielding
Worthless for breeding, unneeded
For the Canaanites feed on the carrion of their own battlefields
The meat of their own brothers
Sisters, Fathers, Mothers
The feast devoured, bellies full, sated
The leftovers packed in salt for another day

Night falls, soon the stone that seals the altar tomb
Will be rolled away
The strongest of the peoples will enter the huge cavern
To claim their rightful reward
Until then...

The sounds of grunting women and children
None resisting, none even caring
Most feel nothing
The women should be crying, the children screaming
Only the infants' wails stand out against the cacophony
The noise of mindless rutting, the tears drawn by innocence crushed
Man and woman so desensitized
They barely feel anything anymore
But they remember the sensation
They strive to get it back
The Canaanites have become too ignorant to realize
They never will
So they've turned it into a God
Given it life, passed it on, infecting their enemies
Every bit as lethal as the diseases they've unwittingly cultivated
Passed on to open hearts and open minds
And to their infants and children
A malaise that blossoms into deformity, leprosy or worse

On a dais in the center of the cave
Are seven corpses
The Strong Men know them well

A Canaanite woman squats in a field on the edge of the village
She heaves and groans, face red from effort
With a final push she feels relief
The tiny thud of a newborn hitting the ground distracts her
To her it is nothing more than another form of defecation
She wraps the umbilical cord around her right hand
With her left she grasps the slimy casing
With a quick, purposeful **** she tears it in two
Rips, wanting nothing more to do with the burden she's carried for nine months
A final glance at the condemned child
The sand around it's body blotted with blood and issue
It's airless plea unheeded
She turns and walks away, apathetic
She's done this before
Many, many times before

The cave echoes with an ungodly sound
The Strong Men harness the beasts
The noise is maddening
The Strong Men dominate
Their laughter is insane
The creatures, they believe, are their prize
After all, they are the Strong Men
They are the leaders of the land

Friendship is dead
Compassion is dead
Fear is dead
Hope is dead
Desire is dead
Reason is dead
Logic is dead
Understanding is dead
Joy is dead
Peace is dead
Patience is dead
Kindness is dead
Self-control is dead
Faithfulness is dead
Gentleness is dead
Goodness is dead
Love is dead
Dead as the corpses on the altar
Dumb as the animals in the cages
If those creatures were sentient beings
They would beg for the slaughter
If the Canaanites had not so long been numb
They would pray for the same

The Strong Men
Are ready
Now
For the
Corpses

****

A loving God puts a crippled horse out of it's misery
A loving God buries it deep underground

A loving God does not condemn without reason
Without good reason

A loving God does not sanction genocide
But He will clear a field full of rabid skunks

So come everybody throw ya hands
In the air for me
If y'all feelin this jubilee


O yea so lets get back to the actions
Satisfaction
Of celebrities got ya main attraction
No actin I'm packing
Gats to baseball bats and who dat?
Call me poetry wack splat
Goes through ya back bullet hole
Filljn those
Empty spots ya can't touc what's hot
I got reps like birdie
Above the rim lace blunt with traces
Of v slims
Who can stop me if my potency
Is near infinite
I'm embedded in ya melon eternally
Too cool for y'all to see I be
With this jubilee a juvenile
Born in the wild never smiled as child
All I wanted was a few toys from micky ds
Could barely afford cheese
Make tracks sneeze when I breath
Got thick chicks from here all the way to Belize
Please don't be ignorant
Just throw ya hands up to this anthem
Ya can't phantom
The jubilee is slammin-
Come on



Not that the time is right
Refocused my sight the black knight
Knocking outsights now ya braille as **** for trynA **** with
The m o b s t e r ghetto star
All hands on the r
Ruger luger quick to shoot ya scoop ya
Out of the scene like ice cream
One man team
Don't need a **** near friend in need
Please believe
I got backups like traffic
Hit the skins is automatic cuz static
To radio station they hate me
Cuz I don't participate in *******
I'm concerned with
These ***** *** punks running politics
Donald Trump I gotta automatic thAt loves to dump
Throw his *** in the trunk
Puff skunks I'm slammin on the gas
Like an alley oopp dunk full of *****
Dikes to lesbians all want a piece of me
I ain't cocky but stocky like Rocky
Picket pock me ill find thee
Restin peace to my enemies
That couldn't get to me
I'm hater proof so y'all just throw ya hands in the air for me
And represent this jubilee ahh. Come on

I mourn for skunks.

The squashed, flattened masses
***** mashed, their stripes scattered
Matted  masks disguising unseeing eyes
Through how many fields have they run?
Once sweet babies, small noses, downlike fur
fleeing to their final place from green leafed bowers in a terrible act of asphalt bait n' switch

Let us all grieve the sacrifice which,
Unto the motor gods
Has been served.

Everybody has those days
you know the one's I mean
where no matter what you try and do
you just stand back and scream
plans go all asunder
and things go all to hell
You should have stayed under the covers
shut your eyes, ignored the bell

You've had them, that I'm sure of
When the toast burns, coffee too
The dog ate the kids homework
What are you supposed to do?
The car door was left open
It won't start, but that's all right
Because someone stole the left side tires
While you were sleeping through the night

One step forward
Three steps back
The dance of all concerned
One step forward
Three steps back
Move fast or you'll get burned

Water running down the staircase
The toilet overflowed once more
not to mention all the water
behind the locked bathroom door
it's great the kids are learning
the different things in this world wide
like how different things will happen
when you let a skunk in from outside

a stiff drink would be lovely
would make the problem disappear
but, your oldest drank your whiskey
and you've only got two near beer
skunks and cars, and broken phones
just a day in all our lives
that's why doctors tell new husbands
time to lock up all the knives

One step forward
Three steps back
The dance of all concerned
One step forward
Three steps back
Move fast or you'll get burned


The dance is one we all know
best intentions laid to rest
you'll never quite get where you're going
until you first pass all the tests
just smile and keep moving
don't let it get you down
the dance is not selective
it picks on everyone in town

remember..

One step forward
Three steps back
The dance of all concerned
One step forward
Three steps back
Move fast or you'll get burned

Written November 2008*

Somtimes when I get bored
My mind starts to wander.
My head flies away to faraway lands
Filled with talking bunnies, skunks, and squirrels
And ticking clocks
Swallowed up.....by alligators.

But even in this rhelm
Of extraordinary things
There is still that boy
Who runs away from me;
My prince charming.

I call to him, To let me in;
To know the secrets in his head.
But still he flies
Into the skies
Of Never-Never Land.

4am and my eyes are killing me,
and I'm dull and sore and ****.
****. ****. ****. ****.

Leaning against an arcade booth
of Street Fighter 2 watching them
dance in green lazer lights.
We decided to go back to her friend's place.

Her friend got wine,
he got beer.
He ****** in the bushes.
Admitted he was drunk.

On the roof of her friend's apartment,
I ****** down a cold coffee,
and we played acoustic music.
We climbed higher on the roof.
They smoked and drank,
and just generally shot the ****.

Something bad happened between him and her;
she ran off crying, he's calling her a child, a baby.
He's pretending he's not mad,
pretending he's in control of his emotions
while lashing out.
Throws a beer bottle,
decides to leave. She
practically begs him for a ride home.
Me and her friend want so badly for her
to stay. Stay.
She leaves with him.
Drunk and ******, to drive her home.
I start walking home soon after.

I get lost on a street.
It's 2am and I'm jumping up and down
waving my hands, trying to get someone
to just tell me where I am.
A man across the street must be taking out garbage,
I walk across the street and say, "Excuse me sir?"
He shouts, "No! Go back across the street! NO!"
like I'm a ******* wild animal.
I ask him, "Can you just tell me where Bluestone is?"
He tells me to go north.
His input is useless.
I hope he dies of pancreatic cancer.

I kick a can and yell, "**** all of you, collectively!"
to the suburban nightmare I'm trapped in.
"I hope they nuke this ******* **** stain neighborhood!"
Kick an empty Arizona can in contempt and disgust.

I have a small monologue with myself
and almost break down on the sidewalk.

Walk back to practically where I came from,
and take the long way home.
On my way I pass a stranger who asks, "Dig?"
No ******* idea what they meant.
I dodge the skunks and grab a hubcap.
Wanted a trinket.
I think I'm gonna have a ******* aneurism.

Ross was a fullblooded
bronze-skinned buddy
from the Navajo Nation.
He was a diehard Okie,
and a machine gunner,
carried the M-sixty
with twenty pounds
of extra belted-ammo.
He was a big guy,
had brown deep-set eyes,
high cheeks and
not a single hair
on his burly body,
but some high and tight
pitch bristles on his head.
He had a weakness.
Pure Straight Whiskey.
Whenever he had too much,
he was an F5 tornado,
a wild Tasmanian devil,
to be reckoned with.
I remember when he had
his front top teeth knocked out
by some civilian bouncers
at a local drinking establishment.
He kicked the **** out of
three huge muscle guys.
It was him versus them.
A regular melee.
Ross won.
Once on a Saturday night,
drunk as skunks,
we made an illegal turn
on the Interstate south of Denver.
We ended up flying down the highway
with four hundred feet of wire
attached to wooden poles,
sent sparks flying everywhere.
I never saw a guy laugh
so hard in all my life.
He ****** himself hysterically.
We gave Ross his first Native American name.
We were out in the field,
just hanging out
in battle gear,
shooting the ****
around our APC.
We called him Prancing Moose,
Moose for short.
He loved it when
we called him that,
gave us a toothless grin.
He was a warrior to us.
In another time and place,
he might have been a Chief.
He was courageous,
fearless and
a good friend
to have in your side.
From time to time,
I think about him,
and pray he's okay,
still alive.
He was our blood brother.
We were in hell together.
I miss him, too.

He he ha ah, ah ah –
no, no, no – no I’m not tipsy…
Who says so ? I can drink and
still walk a straight mile
Yeah, I’m delirious, am I?
I’m delirious that’s
because you’re funny, silly
cos you’ve got three skunks
where your mouth should be
and your nose is a dead tree….
Ha ha he he
hey, anyone reasonable can tell I’m not tipsy;
really
I can drink till grandma comes back
from Heaven and still stay calm and steady
and she screamed the other day:
‘Hey, sonny boy…when you drink
airmail some of the spirit up here to me…
It gets too sane up here in Heaven.’
And what’s that you say?
You too think I’m tipsy? Hee, hee, hah ah **…
What’s the matter
You people never seen anyone happy?
Tipsy?...no way, man….I’m just me, yeah
happy and easy-going
I swear the last time I drank was at my wedding
Which was when?
Bet my wife’ll remember the date and year…and place…
and if it happened at all..
and I’m laughing, it seems, oddly
cos you’ve got a donkey head
and your wife looks like a monkey on heat
He he ha ah, ah ah –
no, no, no – no I’m not tipsy
I swear the last time I drank was
when your grandma gave birth to
what was it, her twentieth baby?
Says who, ah? I can drink and
still walk a straight mile
and look at you, you’re looking
like a pink pig with its posterior
all barbecued on a dinner plate
ready for the fork and pepper and sauce;
and hey, I swear the last time I drank was
when you drowned
in the swimming pool;
it was our office function
and you drowned in the hotel pool
and you were struggling and you said:
‘****! ****! Help me!’
and you drowned and died….
I really hate talking to drowning ghosts…
Booo…BOOOOOO….
He he ha ah, ah ah –
No, no, no – no I’m not tipsy
who says so ? I can drink and
still walk a straight mile
Say, can you call me a taxi
and spare, say, a fifty?

There's woods outside of town aways
that I will not go near
There's tales of ghosts and monsters
And I don't like the things I hear

There's screeching noises unlike those
Any animal can make
Even in the daylight
Those woods just make me shake

I've heard tales of people who
Let their dogs out after dark
They come back, all scared and skittered
And they never ever bark

There's something in those woods I say
Strong magic is around
There's tales of children disappearing
Never to be found

Three years ago I walked on past
And I heard a noise....real close
I swore something was watching me
It may have been a ghost

On Halloween, the woods light up
With magic from within
No one dares to venture there
They'll not be seen again

Some nights when the moon is full
The noises fill the air
Of screeching, howling wild beasts
Of things covered in hair

I've only seen one bird around
The entrance to the wood
It's a single, lonely raven
And to me that isn't good

Raccoons, and skunks and squirrels
I never see them near this place
It's inhabited by demons
It's never known god's grace

The stories aren't the sort that
Make you want to see
What is in the woods that howls
I won't go in ...not me

The woods have always been there
And the stories have been too
I know the sounds scare me to death
And I'm sure, they'd scare you too

Don't venture near the woods at night
Don't go there in the day
Just leave them to their darkness
It's just best to stay away

what were you doing near my house Coyote?
were the poachers chasing you off?
Did the rumbles of trucks scare you inland?
I have an arroyo as my neighbor
  with jack rabbits and snakes
  with crickets the size of urban cockroaches
  barely any humans
  only the ones true to nature walk the rocky trail
  but you...
I am confused Mr Coyote
why were you not coming from the arroyo?
You cannot buy food at the Albertsons
and the gas stations dont let you in
The village inn wont serve you
and the campus is sealed by skunks and their ghastly---wind
Fast food makes no sense to you
all your food is fast
so I'm lost in where youre coming from
old friend
the native spirit of my soul
has come once again
Old coyote
As if you had been lost in the residential homes of El Chuco
  and simply searching for me.

i am sitting on the bridge i grew up on, where it smells like skunks. no one minds. i am listening to four creatures soaring way over head. then there's the crickets, the tree frogs, the breeze through the leaves. the soft  brushing of this pen hitting the paper. my breaths through a stuffy nose, leaves interrupting the creek's flow, ever so slightly, a few rocks and branches deciding it's time to change location from the top of the hill, to the bottom, and a comforting whistle i cannot identify. and that one being, maybe a tree frog, that sounds like maracas shaking or a basking tambourine. the footsteps of a stranger, maybe a friend, but the rhythm sounds foreign, heavy. when i close my eyes, it's now Mt. Pocono 1998. i am there. acorns and pine cones introducing themselves to earth. all the spiders in the world building their webs, their homes, the whispery rushed sound. and if you listen long enough, someone mowing their lawn, another driving too fast, always in a hurry, could be anyone. all i know at this point is, it's not me

I'm a homeless skunk
wandering in the jungle.
dwelling in bushes and trees
shrugging to make a living.

I don't have a place called home,
Running and sick of pleasing.
I won't eat dinner
because I'm not one in the listing.

I don't have a private space
to store my valuable belongings
Neither nor for rest,
where an old sofa is my bedding.

Hard work and passion isn't an issue
and I crave for good sleep.
Peanut is what I got
During month ends and second week

I'm in a big hole of trouble
but I'm not backing off.
Problems are a common thing
when you're in a sliding *****.

Say, There is a *** of gold
in a little powder shed of understanding.
when fixing of the broken cracks,
is needing much help and pleading

And I lost a lot of friends,
but gained a few that's real,
Skunks themselves wandering
looking for a home and a heal.

Titanic barnstorms the Tennessee plain through jet powered airplane
As though the Lusitania New York City could hardly proffer a contradictory profane
Nevertheless the intricacies of gamboling and gambling garble too many dice
Listerine rinses a whitewashed flaw until it singes gravity sawed twice
Three pieces of would form a tripartite could, that can’t because beggars are mute and rude
That beggars whisper the hymns of an immemorial festivity churlish upon listless attitude
So we hearken the classics and drop the ink quill upon that pile of effluvium and molasses
We invent friction just to pass a fall’s worth of failed jack-*****
“No more” he exclaimed just as the leaky faucet marginally contained
“Know more reason and you will be fully redeemed”
So I cannot pinpoint the provenance of despair among discrete colonies with barter too unfair
With ***** dens conflagration’s dead blank stare
The pit of the useful and the heap of the useless sorted into neat piles on either side of the River Nile
And each pottery keepsake is a husk of a land long ago defiled
But the hunters that talismans comfort shadowed into a grave crypt
They marooned a contact with pedigree to become flimsy with vogue equipped
So they lament on an August morning, lugubrious in toil and minatory in warning
The darkest nights yet seen by sirs yet sheen rollicking in mourning
We skedaddle the limited spectrum of shallow rust becoming hard work’s dross
Draining the swamp of career politicians that prefer the aroma of cod over the swagger of skunks with high sunk costs
Filch me a new coast Bill the Butcher and secure my passage for bonanzas of wealth
A fool’s card is now the traipsed parliament of one world stealth
Among the aristocracy an impediment to change locks all race in internecine game
Racecar palindromes offered as sacrifice to winsome but momentary glares aglow with disdain
Neuter the profligate, neutralize the builder’s set, stain the chastity of the Marmoset
Suddenly the zero-sum game adds up to twenty
With every dime and dozen going to infinity beyond debt with prosperity aplenty
As the laggards play dominoes on quaint tables frittering at the surface
Foment the disregarded rage and wrangled page into a classic Ace of Base
But who really is Walter White?
Does he live in camouflaged tents next to trees daring an alien but mutual fright?
Is he the kind of Wizard that never had consanguinity with alarmist rite and expeditious lies that aleatory fate is somehow too proximal to become in lambent sight?
Questions answer themselves over time with droned litanies of every conceivable tome
Forgotten in an ash heap in Alexandria more so than Rome
Supersonic flight that hedges prizes qualified kites
Encyclopedias of knowledge won’t even decode ghastly ghoulish capes of an off-color might
Now we simper at the glowering ignorance of menial men
Swimming with sharks and synchronized with the obnoxious hen
They won’t learn nearly as much from the Sun as warmth as they would the Moon for guidance
They won’t plaster Paris with the vandalism as counseling for pilfered tridents
So maybe the Anglophones have a menagerie yet seen
Maybe the game was introduced so early the royalty knows explicitly of beatific beams.
All is lost can never be forgiven in the land before time
In the land before precise minutes, seconds and momentary fragrance of threadbare design
So horology is horrific, when the jaws of the aliens in time thresh galloping headless horsemen Revered in this part of town
The imperial switchboard was stocked to the brim
The counterbalance of a Washington winter was equally grim
Embittered by the bellicose autonomy of fledgling families with endless land but limited prosperity
The dragooned riposte resounded among church bells with alarmism in sincerity
But the attrition of winter and the conditions of every primordial printer
Staged the coup that led to the walloped whimper
As the world shrank and wealth enlarged
As the shark tank of time plowed through shares like an ice threshing barge
We found that history is the caretaker of fringe reason becoming indomitable arbitrage
And for ever space that exists from now to the beginning of time there has always been space that begins with a luxurious spa and thereafter credit charged.