Sitting back on that Greyhound Bus
Taking the bus to avoid the fuss
Heading for my Childhood born home
Louisville, Kentucky where I used to roam
A thought of Churchill Downs
My remembrance with my Father watching the horse’s race around
I am thinking about part of my life, as the Greyhound bus to getting me closer to Louisville in my destination bound
Banjo’s playing as we turn onto a country road
I still have 8 more hours to go
I will just relax, recline back and just take it slow
As I Slept through out the night
The sunrise was quite a sight
The Greyhound bus will soon make a breakfast stop
Thinking about my Mother’s breakfast servings that were tops
I must eat light
I don’t want to feel all up tight
Later as the Greyhound bus wheels continue on
I am thinking, home was always where I belonged
I have been traveling for two days long
My anticipation of anxiety feeling like an urn
However over in the distance ever so close, I see the city of Louisville
The highway just opened my heart in being a thrill
The Greyhound bus pulled off the highway onto Louisville Drive, and two blocks away being the Greyhound Terminal as my stride
It has been quite a ride
The Greyhound bus pulled into Gate 8
We arrived On-time and not late
My Father and Mother met me and didn’t hesitate
Louisville I will never forget
I have no regret
I had to come back and give it a shot
I am glad I arrived and no thinking of not.

Come on down to Louisville, Kentucky
For the Fastest Two Minutes In Sports
The first Saturday in May is Kentucky Derby time
It's the end of a two week celebration; the best of times

The runners race that takes a lap around the track
Thunder over Louisville has fireworks and planes fly past
There is a balloon glow and steamboat race
Where else can you go for a time so great

Now it is race day; an all day party
The insane gather in the infield and they can get naughty
You have celebrities, mint juleps and crazy hats
The Kentucky Derby is where it's at

The beautiful horses parade around
The bugles sounds and  My Old Kentucky Home plays
The excitement peaks; it's time for the race
Dreams of the Triple Crown; the Kentucky Derby is the first leg
The Run For The Roses; someone's dream starts today

Summer. bike ride. I’m a child. I live just outside of Churchill Downs in Kentucky. young in skinned knees, pumping a 10 speed in a humid southern town, dodging cracks in the side walk. it’s an old superstition and I still hold it. grass growing in tiny bunches, in cracks. sun peeling the skin. candy rotting the teeth. the city is so *****. the houses dilapidated like fallen, shambling drunks. paint crumbling. and my brother ate paint chips. someone called him *******. rusted cars, playing house. sedan clubhouse, an oven in July. garbage day, rummaging for toys. I once found Quik strawberry milk in the trash I consumed it, and later felt like ****. hot trash treats. cumulus cloud companions, balloons without strings, the heat over eighty degrees, friends none to speak. after school fight. kids claiming coitus in the elementary. country music blaring from a fake wood radio. I found the radio on the curb and was proud of my conquest. all the lyrics incoherent but somehow they resonated. riding bikes all day. no parents. busy, their marriages failing, lives changing. riding through the slums. the houses of broken homes watching me tiredly. boarded eyes. down steep hills. up plywood ramps. kids jeering from porches, throwing rocks, glass, anything. scribbled graffiti. the rain makes everything more loathsome, wet clinging grime.  the dirt sticks to everything. fingertip messages scrawled on cars. s.o.s. twenty foot Marlboro man towering above the block, faded, peeling, half his face gone. like a totem making sentry of the oiled trash, the houses and apartments nodding to demolition. meanwhile, the thoroughbreds are fenced off and protected like coveted family jewels. I stood at the fence and thought, that’s all Kentucky is to the world. just some **** horses. Now and Laters and candy lips stick, my front porch.  the house leans. a drunk on the curb mouth a gape and snoring. is that your dad? no he’s in the tavern across the street. he lives there and its always loud. angry sounding buses threaten to squash the spastic child cyclers as they clutch their Sega genesis desires. cleaning gritty fingernails, I learned that my math teacher was dead. her car she wrapped around an old elm or maple on Southern Parkway the night before. my dad signed me out of school and took me to see the spot where she died. on the asphalt a ripe red stain. did I make this up or was that real? death. learning about death. with cockroaches. the bug-man sprayed and killed your parakeet, Christina. it was stuck to the newspaper that lined the bottom of its cage. I recorded it chirping on a cassette tape. I remember running terrified from rusted sedans. dented and hosting drug addled predators in cut-off jeans, wet legs stuck to torn imitation leather seats. ***** glued them and fueled them. I fled with my flea bitten mongrel friend. fly eaten, **** making. my dog made a minefield of our backyard. in this backyard where every Derby I parked tourist cars, the ladies in fine heals, disgusted and wobbling around the turds, the mud. I stood squat, shabby and I pocketed their money. Kentuckians, that’s all we are; horses, chicken and the cluck, Thompson.

Strange that I sit here now,
Bathroom early morning of same hotel where you once did think to please me, First Love.

Now you sit in Orient soup shops thinking about your life plans somewhere I do not belong.

Have these three years healed any wounds for you,
And are you the reason at all that I'm scared to fall in love?

I'm running out of trips to Louisville, forgotten friend.

Do either of us now think of beauty on Wednesday night teardrop prelude?

Driving through Louisville
in a driving rain storm
at dusk

Ti ** mai detto che io sono un pollone completo per una storia d'amore ?Probabilmente capito che fuori già



.ma io amo sentire come fuori di tutte le persone del mondo .due persone è capitato di trovare l'altro - e quando finisce in un matrimonio bello come questo.mi rivolgo in poltiglia .Catturato da Heather Pipino Fotografia questa storia d'amore ha un finale molto felice.Vedere ancora di più qui .
Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsFallSettingsHotelStylesTraditional Elegance

Da Heather Pipino Fotografia. "Quattro anni fa non avrei maiè èe credevoè ñessere qui in piedi con una ragazza che camminava in un negozio di caffè che indossa un cappello Dodgers .ditutte le cose . abbiamo aspettato quasi due mesi prima che ci incontrassimo a vicenda . Dopo che tutti i testi .e-mail e telefonate abbiamo tenuto il nostro respiro e ha preso un salto .e abbiamo imparato nella vita.che tutto ciò che serve è venti secondi di coraggio folle afare qualcosa di grande accadere. "

Quelle parole erano solo una porzione di dolce voti Sam 'a Lindsey .ma danno una buona sbirciatina per i bellissimi cuori e amore stimolante che Sam e condividere Lindsey .Sono entrambi persone così gentili e genuini e la loro vita e l'amore riflettere sul fatto che in ogni modo.E 'doesnè èimporta quanto tempo siè èe li noti .Sam e abiti da sposa corti Lindsey sono il tipo di persone che ti accolgono con un caloroso abbraccio e lascerà piena di gioia .Essi vi invitano nel loro mondo e ti fanno abiti da sposa on line sentire come seè èe stati amici per anni .E ' questo amore che essi hanno per l'altro e per le persone intorno a loro che hanno fatto il loro giorno di nozze così incredibile .In una bella giornata in California.presso la Estancia Resort a La Jolla .amici e parenti si sono riuniti per sostenere e amare questa coppia che aveva toccato ciascuna delle loro vite .E 'stata una giornata piena di lacrime di gioia .il romanticismo .l'amore e la bellezza .e Sam e Lindsey meritato ogni singolo istante.

Da Bride.How ci siamo incontrati : Le nostre mamme lavorano insieme in una scuola nella Bay Area .Una volta che la sua mamma ha imparato che vivevo a San Diego .ha pensato che sarebbe stata una buona idea per me di mostrare il suo figlio in giro come gli era stato appena assunto lì .Lei e mi aveva viaggiato a Parigi circa sette anni fa con mia mamma e un altro insegnante .Mi ricordo che lei mi dice allora che avevo bisogno di incontrare suo figlio ma eravamo entrambi risalenti altre persone al momento .Ero titubante a incontrarlo fino a quando ** fatto un po ' di Facebook stalking.voglio dire .la ricerca .Mi fu colpito in primo click.The prima richiesta di amicizia è stata inviata e tanti.tanti .( molti) messaggi e fino a tarda notte dopo.i messaggi si rivolse a testi e testi voltai per le telefonate .Questo è durato per un certo periodo come i sentimenti si erano formate veloce e siamo stati nervosi e ansiosi di incontrarsi other.Finally un incontro è stato fissato al Coffee Bean a Carlsbad .Eravamo lì per quattro ore e quasi chiudiamo il posto in fondo .Il giorno dopo.unè edata irstèè stata impostata e il resto è storia !

Il nostro matrimonio ha avuto luogo a La Jolla .in California presso l' Estancia Hotel.Abbiamo scelto questa posizione perché è rilassato eleganza .giardini mozzafiato .ed è vicino a dove viviamo .Perché ci siamo incontrati e viviamo qui a San Diego e volevamo festeggiare il nostro amore qui .La maggior parte dei nostri ospiti di nozze erano da fuori città .abbiamo voluto l' atmosfera di essere caldo.accogliente.e una volta tutti vorremmo amare .

I colori erano nero.bianco e verde e il tema era classica .semplice eleganza.Volevamo la sede per parlare di se stesso in modo non volevo fiori eccessivamente fatto .ma felci semplicemente dichiarati e fiori bianchi .Isari Floral Studio ha fatto un lavoro incredibile catturare la nostra visione .

Volevamo il matrimonio per avere tocchi di tutti noi in tutto.Abbiamo parcheggiato la nostra hot rod (1932 Ford Roadster ) nel modo di entrata dell'hotel.Mio padre aveva una splendida "Just Married " segno gessato per noi.così abbiamo potuto avere un scappare con stile !Il nostro cane (leggi : nostro figlio ) . Non poteva essere sulla proprietà .purtroppo .così abbiamo avuto una foto incorniciata di lui fatta con un cartello appeso al collo che diceva : " Sono contento che tu sia qui a festeggiare con i miei genitori prega di godere il cagnolinoborse da me . Woof .Lux " .Su quel tavolo .avevamo sacchetti di biscotti monogramma di Michele Coulon Dessertier .Per il nostro libro degli ospiti .abbiamo lavorato con un graphic designer per fare quello di un manifesto sorta di nostra sede .Ora abbiamo questa grande opera d'arte.con parole gentili di tutti appendere in casa nostra .Sulle pareti della Sala Grande .avevo il nostro invito fatto saltare in aria e sparsi sui muri nelle loro cornici .Tutti questi tocchi davvero reso il giorno così memorabile .

nostro incredibile team di venditori e la nostra famiglia e gli amici sono ciò che veramente ha reso questa giornata il giorno più speciale della nostra vita finora.Siamo così fortunati ad aver avuto un bel matrimonio tale .Sono entusiasta di essere sposata con Sam per il resto della nostra vita !Fotografia

: Heather Pepin Fotografia | dell'artista: Aqua Vivus Productions | Event Design : Sherry Glommen | Pianificazione : Swann Soirees | Floral Design : Isari Flower Studio | Floral Design : Isari Flower Studio | Cake : la zia della sposa | Inviti : Smitten Onpaper | Cerimonia Luogo : Estancia La Jolla | Banco Luogo : Estancia La abiti da sposa on line Jolla | Bridesmaids Dresses : Nordstrom | capelli: Jessica / Michelle - Koda Salon | Calligraphy : Brown Fox Calligrafia | Abbigliamento da Groomsmen : Nero risvolto | officiante : Cerimonie Per Bethel | pipistrelli pergroomsmen : Louisville Slugger | vestito nuziale : Tara Keely | sposa / damigella d'onore Abiti : Abbastanza Plum zucchero | Cookies : Michele Coulon Dessertier | Guest Book Graphic Designer : Designs J Gal | Musica live / DJ : Collin Elliot -Ancora Ascolto Productions | Trucco : FioreBeauty | Photobooth : Photobooth mobileHayley Paige e Jim Hjelm occasioni sono membri della nostra Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui .Fiore Bellezza .Isari Fiore Studio + Design Event .Plum Piuttosto Zucchero.JLM Couture .Inc. e Mobile Photo Booth sono membri del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Fiore di bellezza VIEW PORTFOLIO Isari Fiore Studio vedi portfolio Plum graziosa Zucchero vedi portfolio JLM Couture Wedding Gown Bouti ... vedi portfolio Mobile Photo Booth VIEW
http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-corti-c-49
http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=230
http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/1/2153735353535_393257.jpg

Ali's Song
by Michael R. Burch

for Muhammad Ali

They say that gold don't tarnish. It ain't so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, "called a ***** a *****."
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave's name to the river, child.
I flung their slave's name to the river, child.

Ain't got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can't be lukewarm, 'cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, "Now here's your bullet and your gun,
and there's your cell: we're waiting, you choose one."
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their "future" to the river, child.
I gave their "future" to the river, child.

My face reflected up, dark bronze like gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—BOLD.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child,
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

The poem above has been set to music in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong.

You are free to copy the poem for noncommercial use, such as a school project, essay or report, or just because you like it and want to share, but please credit Michael R. Burch as the author.

NOTES: (1) Muhammad Ali said that he threw his Olympic gold medal into the Ohio River after experiencing racism in his hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. Confirming his account, the medal was recovered by Robert Bradbury and his wife Pattie in 2014 during the Annual Ohio River Sweep. The Ali family paid $200,000 to regain possession of the medal. Ali later made a joke about the incident that caused him to toss his medal into the river. He said that he took his medal into a white downtown restaurant and ordered a cheeseburger. The waitress told him, "We don't serve negroes." Ali replied, "I don't eat them either. Just bring me a cheeseburger!" (2) When drafted during the Vietnam War, Ali refused induction, reputedly saying: "I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******." (3) The notice mentioned in my poem is Ali's draft notice, which metaphorically gets tossed into the river along with his slave name. (4) The poem was originally published by the literary journal Black Medina. It has since been published by Other Voices International, Thanal Online, Freshet, Poems About and Poem List.



For Ali, Fighting Time
by Michael R. Burch

So now your speech is not as clear . . .
time took its toll each telling year . . .
and O how tragic that your art,
so brutal, broke your savage heart.

But we who cheered each blow that fell
within that ring of torrent hell
never dreamed to see you maimed,
bowed and bloodied, listless, tamed.

For you were not as other men
as we cheered and cursed you then;
no, you commanded dreams and time—
blackgold Adonis, bold, sublime.

And once your glory leapt like fire—
pure and potent. No desire
ever burned as fierce or bright.
Oh Ali, Ali . . . win this fight!



Me?
Whee!
(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch

The poem above was written in response to the Quora question: “Can you write a poem titled “Me”?



In My House
by Michael R. Burch

I was once the only caucasian in the software company I founded and managed. I had two fine young black programmers working for me, and they both had keys to my house. This poem looks back to the dark days of slavery and the Civil War it produced.

When you were in my house
you were not free—
in chains bound.

Manifest Destiny?

I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.

This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.

When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.

I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.

We were wrong.
This is my history.

I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.

We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.

Published by Black Medina



Poet to poet
by Michael R. Burch

This poem imagines a discussion between Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who spoke so poetically about his dream of equality, and a poet who speaks in parentheses.

I have a dream
(pebbles in a sparkling sand)
of wondrous things.

I see children
(variations of the same man)
playing together.

Black and yellow, red and white,
(stone and flesh, a host of colors)
together at last.

I see a time
(each small child another's cousin)
when freedom shall ring.

I hear a song
(sweeter than the sea sings)
of many voices.

I hear a jubilation
(respect and love are the gifts we must bring)
shaking the land.

I have a message,
(sea shells echo, the melody rings)
the message of God.

I have a dream
(all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone)
of many things.

I live in hope
(all children are merely small fragments of One)
that this dream shall come true.

I have a dream . . .
(but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end?)
Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too!

Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true.
(i can feel it begin)
Lovers and dreamers are poets too.
(poets are lovers and dreamers too)



I, Too, Have a Dream
by Michael R. Burch writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”

I, too, have a dream ...
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve their enmity.
I, too, have a dream ...



My Nightmare ...
by Michael R. Burch writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”

I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing "You're nothing!," so blind.



Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch

Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!



Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch

BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?



Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch

Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.



Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air

Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”



Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch

A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.



Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch

Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.



Keywords/Tags: Muhammad Ali, boxing, violence, The Greatest, race, racism, racist, discrimination, black, slave name, Vietnam War, Olympics, gold medal, God, Muslim, Islam, Islamic, tribute, mrbali, mrbrace, mrbsport, mrbsports, mrbsong

The ten count is over
He's down for the count
The Greatest is gone from this world

But, we will remember
He will stay here forever
As we think of the quips that he hurled

As fast as his fists flew
His lip was much faster
He rhymed with the greatest of ease

Parkinson's slowed him
But, we will remember
The Greatest of All...ALI

Known by the masses
After his time in the ring
He was an angel sent to this earth

He had his convictions
Became a man of the people
He showed what a real life was worth

A true gentle giant
With the speed of a mongoose
The Louisville Lip...that was he

We all know his trademark
How he floated and stung
The Greatest...Muhammad Ali

A couple boarded a Greyhound bus for Louisville, Kentucky
Romance with inspiration in being lucky
The Greyhound bus left from the Big Apple you know
Passenger’s reclined in their seats
They were thinking in traveling that can’t be beat
A lovely woman was sitting right next too me
I have to find out her name you see
The female passenger’s name was Christina
What could be finder?
Christina was going to Louisville also
So this hound bus was travelling with the flow
It seemed the darkness had a heart shaped moon
However we will arrive in the next day in Louisville at noon
Love was definitely on that hound bus
Lips upon lips of romantic passengers being a couple of us
It was the hound bus that brought us together
As the music horns tell of this love tail
It has been the hound’s bus wheels in the trail
Go loving hound too where romance can be found
As we disembark, love has truly made its mark.

Two sluggers emerged
From Louisville;
One fashioned from ash,
One molded from Clay.
One is The Greatest.
Ali.

The sun rises up over the Kentucky hills
The horses in the pasture are slowly strolling around
But today is different
Today is the Kentucky Derby

The quietness of the morning will soon turn to excitement
The pageantry will unfold; the hats, the costumes
The mint juleps and the red roses
The sounding of the trumpets
And the singing of My Old Kentucky Home

Many know nothing about horse racing
The Kentucky Derby horses; they can maybe name a few
We’re proud people in Kentucky; the Kentucky Derby is ours
Come on down to Louisville it’s the Run for the Roses
With open arms we will welcome you

I don't always like
(the taste of)
bourbon
but **** do I like
the way it can make me
feel;
that sting of warmth
as it slithers down your
esophagus,
and suddenly you know
all the best dance moves,
your voice hits smooth on
all the tunes,
your jeans hug ya just right,
and somehow the night
has become yours.
Too many bourbons and
**** I might get a little mean,
but just one or two
and I'm the most
proud-to-be-from-Louisville-
Kentucky girl you've ever
seen.

I heard a man yelling
he was walking toward me
he said he had a bone to pick
he said he had something for me

he starting pushing me
I pulled out my razor knife
I put it to his throat
I said "I'll take your life"

I looked into his eyes
fear is all that filled them
I told him not to move
if he had, I would have killed him

I have had two opportunites to meet Muhammad Ali, once in Oklahoma City(1972) while working for KWTV Channel-9, and the second time in 1975,working for WAVE-TV Channel-3, Louisville, Kentucky, which is his hometown. On each occasion he was in town for some type of benefit appearance. At Channel 3, the sports director was Ed Kallay, who was to do the interview, and who just happened to be Ali's mentor when Ali was much younger and involved with "Golden Gloves", a youth boxing organization. I was a 'director' in the production dept. and it was my job to set up and direct the cameras, etc., during the taping.
He was a fascinating man, eloquent, extremely intelligent, charismatic, approachable, with a great sense of humor. When I introduced myself, he looked at me and said,"I've met you before, in Oklahoma City." Needless to say, "I was stunned!"
During the 'pre-taping' conversation, the three of us were having a cup of coffee. I made a comment on the size of his hands. I placed my right hand flat against his left, thumb to thumb, finger to finger.. He curled his fingers over mine, nearly hiding them. I sure wouldn't want to get hit by him.
He was, admittingly, also a 'bit' of a 'self-promoter.' During that conversation, he made the following comment: "A few weeks before a fight, I start shooting my mouth off, make a lot of people mad, but come fight night they really lay it down, (then took his thumb and swiped it across the open palm of his other hand, simulating the money bets being placed with the Vegas bookies.) let the 'show' begin!" And, did it ever!!

He was also a great humanitarian, donating to various charities, youth organizations, and never forgetting his roots.

A remarkable man! God Bless You, Muhammad Ali!

richard riddle: 06-05-2016

Spent my New Year's eve
staring at my walls.
They have not always been these four,
should have been walking out the door.
Leave without making sure I'm missed.

Dressed warmly,
with some solid shoes,
and a smile as wide as the rust belt.
Feeling like I can't loose,
hoping to find something to make the pain melt.

It didn't melt, it froze,
In the Colorado cold.
I did it to people that were old bros.
Makes me really ill.
How did I make it this low?
My soul is as smelly as some fermenting sourdough.

Wish we were between our four walls.
Twelve ***** and a cement goose,
48 beers feeling like we can't loose.
Probably put someone in a noose.
Leave the facade at that tree,
or else you cannot talk to me.
Golly ******* gee,
lets go to the mailbox to ***.
Give us all a good laugh like hehe.

those were the walls I wish I stared at,
covered in Tyvex home wrap,
and all kinds of other crap.
With more memories than we can all remember,
until we meet after we go to the big slumber,
and hang out together with Hoone, Buffet, Slug, and all the others that were with us,
at our highest of highs,
and lowest of lows.
for now life doesn't blow.
it's all about the food,
and not the show.
Hope that wasn't rude,
yet it seems I need to go.

Where... not sure but out that door is all I know.
new job, city, state, country, career...
where to go, not ******* sure,
but hopefully to fix all the wrongs I have ever done,
can't even think of a funny pun,
thinking that I am shunned, and on the run.
Feeling like I should give up and be done,
but I don't want to get rid of the two things that make me feel whole,
my memories and my love.
all I got left to get me to the
new place to be at,
maybe get a cut,
and a new Oakland raiders hat,
possibly a new Louisville bat.

So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,

separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.

In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.

It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,

but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.

In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls

the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.

The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid

abstracts.

I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch

and watch the mangled colors—
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stall—

the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.

“I met Elvis in Louisville,
He signed my record
And kissed my cheek.”
She pointed to
The framed vinyl
Hanging beside the old cross.

The man in the rocking chair
Coughed and bit into an apple.
The woman cut into a
Seven tier molasses cake.

The radio played the National Anthem,
And the old man twirled his fingers in the air,
Whistling as the wind came in through
The window.

I’m chasing after a man who looks like my Great Grandpa.
He was a **** with a salty side eye,
Blue pearls embedded in his
Masochistic, alcoholic head.



Oil! Coal!
Black lung!

Liquid gold off the brushes,
Mines are still
There but the town is sold.

Things that
Have played out long before I
Was born.

Freshly rolled cigarettes
By hand.

His lighter was Navajo blue
And his mustache was alright
He came from San Francisco
But he was born in Wheeling

“Come on in, Jim,
The *** is boiling.”
She said from behind
The screen door.

“Hold on,
I’m talking politics with
The youngin’.”
And as he said that,
He rolled his lips in
An O.

“Put it in your mouth.”
He said as he gave me
A cigarette.
He lit it up,
And told me to inhale.

I blew the smoke out of
My nose,
I didn’t cough
But my eyes watered.


He got up and left me
On the porch with
A rolled stogie
And playing cards with
Pretty women on top.

I peer out the broken glass and what do I see but a flock of little ***** running away from me, all but one, standing in defiance of fear louisville slugger in hand waiting for what comes.    I walk out the door with spalding in hand I stand beside her and gaze at the destruction done by her hand. 160 feet if it were an inch , impressive  drive for a 13 year old girl. all anger gone, there was not much to begin. A 30 dollar window a small price to see her grin, I handed her back her ball, and with my own grin, nice hit little one, a dollar for everyone I find in the backyard I say. 180 feet over the roof   and we went our way. her to her friends with bragging rights and the moment in tact. me to the lumberyard for plywood shutters for the rest of the glass, grinning in anticipation of the days to come.

Driving through Kentucky.
Fields fragrant with summer flowers,
spring fast approaching.  
En-route to meet the boys of previous
summers lounging in London streets, fields, and serpentine parks,
And, stairs leading down to unwelcoming basements; as is the British way.
Malls of America now act as labyrinths.
Where the hell can I park my car?
Again, I ask, where the **** can I park my car?

I don’t care.
I just won’t park my ******* car,
in this god-forsaken middle of the western U.S.
Louisville, better yet, Hicksville.  
I pop another Vicodin to get rid of this ill,
Surviving bit by bit but drained incessantly until,
I am no longer near fill, in spirit or in gasoline, tangible but also metaphysical.  
Someone plunge into my depressed psyche and drill, drill,
DRILL!
Hey waitress of my mind, may I please request the bill?
With a pocket full of Xanax and a duffel bag of boomers,
my pockets jingle, (click-clack) as the pills bounce around with
every step, treating addiction with more drugs appears
to be the current stance of the know nothing doctors across this greatest nation on God’s green earth.
Hey babe, “want to walk with me to the methadone clinic,”
It’s rainy out, cold rain, can you carry my umbrella?
I can’t miss my dose or I’ll get sick.
So again I ask
Babe?
Walk with me to the methadone clinic?

The message to Louisville and the world
This is my goodbye and remember me with the boxing gloves and technique that I
Remember my mission of why I became a Boxer
Thank you Louisville citizens for your throwing of flowers and name called of Ali as my Hearst drove by
Now I don’t want you to see any tear with a cry
But think on my accomplishment being your daily living try
As my Hearse carrying my body drives by, I want you all to come together and embrace
This cannot be a separation of any race
I expect triumphant beyond defeat
Living is about having character along with endurance extending into total strength
I fought where others said I couldn’t
The boundaries insisted I shouldn’t
But I stood up with a raw of my voice
I let it be known that this was going to be my choice
My rivers are continuing to flow
I want you all to know, I truly love you so
You have been fans and friends
It was from beginning to end
My name has spread throughout the land
Yet I have achieved throughout my life
The Lord called me home, as I will have a new place where my spirit can roam
My legacy will continue to be around
So look up, and you know where I will be found
Farewell from Ali you know, and take care being my loving and inspiring flow.

The reflective green of the exit, not this one
A long way from home with the black too beneath the worn rubber that has traveled so many miles
The dashed lines pass and pass and pass, from white to yellow and back again
A semi flys by, I don't mind, it's enjoyable to take your time.

Where to this time?
To Dayton?
To Louisville?
To Indy?
The spirit to travel will always be in me.
Oh how these lights cast our the darkness as I fly by.

To put this down on paper would feel much simpler, more real, more meaningful
The imagery would appear and stick like the ink to the paper, like the tires to the road
Always on the go, always on the run, to travel, to explore, so many places I've never been before

As I reflect about the open road, I'm trapped inside this coat check in a building filled with the lost
How I long to travel home on this cold winters night and dream of places not yet seen
How I long to feel my eyes feast upon so many unknown wonders
Will I get to view such things?
One wonders, for now I'll chase the road like post lightning thunders.

Needing to pull some cold hard cash at the atm,  I gave a cold glare at the homeless man sitting on the floor by the gas station outside near the entry way holding a sign.

Not out of hate or anger, but curious as to what he asked for on the sign he held, because I did not want him to know I had any compassion to a fellow humam being.

After pulling some money to leave the gas station premise, I  glared at the homeless man holding up the sign once again, but this time squared on the eyes, and then asked him what was the sign for.

"I'm looking to hitch a ride from Louisville to Lexington Kentucky, and then to Pennsylvania."

Still glaring at him with judging eyes, and wanted to hear the man talk. I proceeded to ask him.

"Is that all you are asking, nothing else?"

Giving me a desperate glare.
"Well, if cash, or anything will do, and if I was going to use it on alcohol, i'll generally tell people ill use it for that.

Became more curious I asked him if he had a meal yet?

He then nodded yes and he was okay.

I then gave him a smile and handed him a Alexander Hamilton. The homeless man thank me and promised he wouldn't use it for alcohal.  

I told him "do as you like, I will not judge you!"

There is such a thing as love that require nothing, and expect nothing from a fellow human being. While I had no intention of judging the man, I had to be reserved in my curiosity, and I will not be a sucker to the people who abuse the system.

While the glare was unnecessary, I did not want to show my compassionate face that may have given the homeless man any teleprompting of my weakness to hear a sob stories, which I am a sucker to!

It was not my place to judge the man,
I been to rock hard bottom myself,
and some times give little isn't so bad!

Started using again,
Left my heart on a front porch just outside Louisville like a spare key, drove home 200 miles with powder burning in my head, igniting and torching the highway, the cliff faces, the forests and all
All of that wildlife with no place left to go,
I will return to this when I'm ready, I say
This just got to be too much, I say
I just need to sleep this off, I say
Started using again,
Built these lies into a jail cell, turned a key and dropped off like nothing was ever there
Built these words into a vehicle, turned a key and drove off without a word
Started using again,
Quarantined for the better, stenographed prophecies into the past so that I could realize them now and feel like I've achieved something
Started using again,
Forgot about it except in between sleep cycles, the details gone only the patterns manifest, trace the curvature and find a reason, fall asleep, forget again
Started using again,
Slow it down, take it all in by pieces,
Breathe in the fumes, feel the head rush
Don't get ****** up,
Take the edge off and don't **** yourself with it
Started using again,
It's all in the comedown, the clarity, the doom on the walls and the tar in the lungs,
It's out of my hands, I will seek no forgiveness, I only ask for understanding
Started using again,
Depart in the morning before everyone wakes up,
Have some coffee, a hot shower,
Do not be afraid of today,
Fear forever, fear your own head,
Then find your spine, unlock it and teach it to stand on two legs,
And walk out of here, and don't stop for anything

Debauchery was in the air for all of us last night.
Neo hip hop stoner jive.

I once watched my friend break down into tears after
hearing a Phil Collins song while shopping for dinner
in a Louisville gas station.

Angela will get up and leave the room if The Reason by Hoobastank
comes on the radio and you still listen to Closing Time when you get ready for bed.
Weird phrases are hovering through the air.

I turned on the bathroom fan to avoid sitting in silence with myself and you ripped up all my potted plants and sold my favorite arm chair on craiglist.
I wake up sobbing.

You were chewing on a red pen, but i thought it was a twizzler. I worked up the courage to ask you for one.

The chainsaw love song of the jumping spider
makes the snare drums in your ears roll.
Its gold in the right light.
Even better in the under light.

I told you i think its weird that everyone buys shoes
and maybe some people feel about their shoes
the way i feel about my shoes,
Which is a good feeling.

I am writing this poem while other people
read poems that the have written also.

I am too anxious to ask people when podcasts become a thing
and what does it mean to be a podcast?

A friend once said it would be cool if your poetry professor
told you to ******* but its also cool when they get you a
glass of water at the poetry reading where you are writing poems.

I think the girl in front of me is writing a poem too.
I wonder if she writes about spiders.
I wonder if she is giving her mom a poem for her birthday.
I wonder if she drafts poems about how you make her feel but
deletes them before they burn into her laptop screen.

I wonder how you feel when you make me feel good and happy.
I hope that you feel like the way i feel when you make me feel good and happy.
I am glad we are friends. I want you to play piano with me on sunday evenings
so we can prelude into the perpetual strain of sunday to saturday.
It may, if we play loud enough, dampen the bodies of the
****** and doomed that we inhibit on weekdays.

I wish I could write poems that inspire your poems.

It was a grey sky as I came in the MSP Airport at Oct 24, 2014 9:00 a.m, and this sudden sorrow befell on me as I came in from the airport driving in 94 tunnel near 35W cross highway. It was saddening because it felt like the place I knew so well was evaporated from my mind, and the skies understood the emotions I felt coming back. It is this attachment I have in this place, and falling in love with the surrounding I grew up in are now a blur. Just like a melody of your favorite tune you desperately want to not forget, but all you see are shadows and hues.

As I arrived at my hotel, all I wanted to do was sleep, and rejuvenate.
It was around 5:00 p.m. when I woke up, and it was time to see people. People I knew so well, and people who are kind, and share their time with! I wish I can convey how much you people mean to me as I meet you, as we have conversation, and interact with our minds. Too often in this era we forget to talk, a small chat to hear each other's thoughts. Sharing part of yourself, and expressing the moment of our surrounding and connecting. It is these moments I cherish with people laughing, and observing. Even if there were no words, it is the silence of being near people you enjoy with delight spending time with them.

As I lay in my hotel bed, I know there will be full days ahead of me. To see people I have not seen for a year now, and look forward to events you all have created. I can taste it and feel it. I know I will love every minute of it, and cherish it. You friends make Minnesota my home, and I will miss it as I leave back on the 27th! I see the grey from the morning as I came to Minnesota, because it was an omen from the start, and all good things will end. When I see you folks I like to hear your voice, and communicate, because I want to remember the tune I've heard from the past. I don't want to forget why Minnesota was so special, and time spent in the moment will be what I'll take to Louisville KY of the melody of life that linger in my mind.

Until then, may the shades of grey dissipate, and the light shine on our time of connection! Miss you guys and gals so much, and look forward to spending time with you all!

It happened on a snowy night
Not very long ago
My wife and I were sleeping
But I was tossing to and fro

We awaken to an awful noise
One we'd never heard before
The sound of it was frightful
And I knew I had to explore

It wasn't in the closet
Or the kitchen where we eat
It wasn't the dog for he was there
Cowering at our feet

It wasn't in the attic
For no footsteps were heard at all
I picked up my Louisville slugger
As I wandered down the hall

It wasn't in the living room
Or on the bathroom floor
I crept downstairs with bat in hand
As I opened the basement door

Each step would seem like hours
As I quietly held my breath
One mistake could bring me closer
To a most untimely death

I fumbled with the light switch
Anticipation filled the air
The moment of truth had finally come
To see what monster was there

Now that I have your attention
I hope you're ready to scream
For none of this really happened
It was only just a dream

I'm sorry about the ending
But you really should have known
This is the kind of poems I write
Whenever I'm alone

I see a man holding a sign asking for money on the ramp light,
And I would have typically dismissed them "supposed homeless,"
But today is Christmas I told myself as I pulled a twenty dollar bill.

I stopped at my favorite Mongolian restaurant,
Enjoying their stir fry of vegetables and meats,
And I see a young male asking for a phone to borrow.

I would have dismissed him normally with random strays of people,
But today I reached out and started a conversation with this young man.

He was kicked out of his parent's house in Chicago,
Looking to reach out to his friend to hang with.

In Christmas day with another homeless who lived in Chicago,
And some how got to Louisville living in a tent so I gather.

First asking for free water,
And then Dr Pepper as I offered to get him water!

As he try to dismiss himself from the premise,
I asked if he had a meal?
And from what I gather he hasn't ate for awhile,
Maybe a day or two.

I offered to buy a meal,
And then sat with him,
And initiated a conversation!

I know there are fake people trying to take advantage people's good deeds,
Or lazy bums who choose not to work!,
But today is Christmas.

He could have been my brother,
I mean not in literal sense since he was Caucasian,
But aren't we all human with same desires, needs and wants?

If I was in that situation would someone would have helped me?
When I was hungry and had nothing I wished someone did helped me.

People don't deserve a single thing from me,
But today is Christmas!
He could be my brother,
He could have been me!

Lifelong religious obsessions
But religion not for me

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
In Seattle 2 did 3

Springsteen in Louisville
Dylan in DC

I walk alone in solitude
My children yearningly

             Cedar tree

I had a little  money found myself
bellied up to a bar in Louisville
making the beer- keep keep it flowing
for long tall Sally and Gloomy in the corner
for even Johnny come lately
and pass around Patty
for annoying talkative Bill
and shy Patsy
even bought the  broke guy outside
the cheapest bottle of ***** available
ended up going home broke
wobbling , Patsy my crutch.
I would like to think
she was being charitable.

Blessed are we who have fallen from The Tower
Blessed are we
Scraping fingernails ****** on the glass ceiling,
Licking at the heels of heroes with broken knuckles who tried to bust through to heaven,
Burning sage for the sake of all the dead spirits waiting around to come alive,
Contemplating reality through thick rimmed glasses wreathed in flame,
Counting credit card taps on tables while buzzing out of fragile bones for the next high,
Sleeping half awake in dreams of red wine and brighter futures,
Hallucinating city lights on balconies in a gin soaked haze of grandeur,
Holding out for wayward outcast brothers and sisters to come by and hear us preach revolution,
Selling burdens in parking lots for the price of a pack of cigarettes and a ride home,
Sobbing on strangers shoulders on Greyhound bus rides to ruin,
Offering confessions at the feet of angels we couldn't begin to understand but loved regardless,
Zigzagging through tree lines on another half drunk run from the police,
Searching for Thomas Wolfe's spirit in boxcars and jazz records and visions of once romantic America,
Cutting deep in to the veins of holy purpose to stain canvasses until they resemble dreams,
Climbing bridges to taste the salt in the air and violent change on the wind,
Breaking into cars to search for an escape from our fathers' rage,
Painting nails black as we pick poems from every strand of young girls hair, trying to remember to feel blessed to have the privilege of so much feeling,
Coming home wreathed in the laurels of our stories, to be met with roared laughter from friends and vacant stares from our parents,
Picking flowers to sweeten the smiles of lovers with the only beautiful things that do not come from our own hearts,
Talking all night in circles until the cops come by to remind us of the world we live in,
Smoking *** on nights we want nothing more than to recapture the feelings we lost, and drift away in a fog of some old glory
Falling in love with rivers and the people we associate with our memories, working up the nerve to kiss them under streetlights in driveways where birds sing too early,
Forgetting the phone numbers of the people we used to call every full moon,
Leaving messages on the walls hoping someday someone will come by and comprehend the nature of the disease,
Tasting death on our birthdays and throwing up the sins of years past, comforted by the sins of years to come,
Shooting for the stars from the hip and blowing violent holes in the roofs of the places we called home instead,
Living indefinitely in the crawl spaces between endless Purgatory cycles of rise and relapse,
Blessed are we sleeping restless in the suburbs,
Testifying to the suffering in Dayton,
Swimming strung out through the Cincinnati streets,
Robbed blind in Columbus,
Hoping to leave Louisville fast enough before our ghosts drag us home,
Erasing memories of Lexington by way of moonshine and therapy,
Praying the South  might take us back if we just said we were sorry
Blessed are we who have fallen from The Tower,
Blessed are we who still have so much farther to fall

Slowly I awaken
I am hanging upside down in the center of a room
the floor and surrounding furniture is covered in plastic
karma catches us all
I was on my way to Vegas to start over
to fund my life change I started robbing mob safe houses along the way figured i'd be a new man before they caught me
I was wrong
The drugs wear off and I feel every blow all at once and pains ignites like a 4th of July ceremony all over making me cringe and yell out in agony
Just like that my screams of pain usher in this 6'8 Russian guy with a baseball bat
"no one can hear you" says the russian
"*******!' I scream defiantly
he walks over with the bat he hand lines up his swing and like barry bonds on a good day I feel that Louisville slugger shatter my ribs more then they already were sending me weeping in pain holding blood in my mouth
"no one is gonna come save you either gingerbread man"
his phone rings and his smile disappears he vanishes to the other room leaving me to my agony so close yet so far away
I was almost free
The Russian wall returns a few minutes later with the last face I could hope to see Vincent cauldron his friends called him Vinnie
His enemies usually didn't live long enough to call him anything
he came directly to me
"nothing personal kid you just ****** up" he said coldly
he pulls out a pistol and hits me in the temple with it
after he orders the Russian to cut me down I collapse on the floor and feel my insides fall apart while blood leaks from my face
"let me go" I yell with the last of my strength
"afraid not bud you stole too much to be forgiven"
Vinnie continues "but if you like i'll try to not enjoy it as much as the last time I had to do this" I feel all the hope leave my soul and I begin to accept my fate
This is it  the end of the show
I begin to turn cold and daze off only to reawaken to the sound of a buzz saw at once I begin screaming with everything I had left
My voice was wasted no one was around to save me and I was about to die shortly
before I can finish my thought I feel a butcher knife skate across my throat with ease
I stop screaming
I collapse back on the ground and let myself bleed out vinnie and the Russian set fire to the room and leave me to die alone
"maybe in the next life you won't be such a **** up" Vinnie tells me before he leaves
As the fire gets closer and my blood soaks the plastic I think about every path not taken and the lovers you left behind
Nothing Matters
In my last moments I smile because **** it
who wants to live forever
FIN

The smell of something putrid
protrudes up through your nostrils
as you walk down these dimply lit streets.
You hear the fire crackling, you see the glow off the side of an abandoned building.

Is this one of those fires you see on the news -
set ablaze by anger and retaliation?

No.
It's the burning wounds along Jacob Blake's back.
It's the marks of oppression -
the scars we "distract" ourselves from.

There's a fire burning in America
and the source is plain to see:
while bodies line up along the streets,
people following along on their TV screens
say a prayer for broken windows.
They mourn items that are looted
as if it wasn't a life that was looted first.

There's a fire burning
and it melts the black skin right off their bones.
A skeleton has no color
yet they blame corpses for their own murders.

There's a fire burning
from Sanford to Staten Island,
from Louisville to Kenosha.
But those very flames were ignited
by the people designated to put them out.

Who watches the watchmen?
Who stands with the people?

The hammer has dropped.
The bullets have left the chamber.
As long as our brothers and sisters
have to fight for their right to live,
Red, White and Blue lives don't matter.

Who did they name savior,
At the ****** church and was it,
Your father, priest of desire and,
Fulfillment, how he scratched,
Every itch the neighborhood ever,
Felt and they built altars on every,
Street corner in south Louisville where they,
Still got stigmata, they still drink the blood and,
Pray bowed heads into the wind,
The last party I saw you,
Break your body into pieces and,
Nobody went hungry that night,
Not like they been starving every night since,
In the light of cold morning you were,
Crucified a martyr, and nobody knew,
How to dig the nails out,
But you did, three days later,
You got down off that cross, and you said,
I did this all for you, and that no tomb,
Ever built of stone or marble,
Could hope to hold all the light,
Burning through your veins,
And this is how I first,
Learned of the art of resurrection,
The congregation named you a heretic,
But I know by now,
The difference between a parlor trick,
And a miracle,
I saw you,
Rise from the grave, and into the sky,
So I’m lighting candles in a,
Deep midnight mass, waiting for a,
Rapture, or another resurrection,
All I want to ask is,
How you did it, and if there is a place,
Somewhere beyond heaven,
Where we are free of death,
Where finally we might,
Laugh, and mean it,
Where we shed our mortal skin, and become,
At last, a hallelujah that never ends