Kościuszko was never loud, never gilded.
An engineer, he built freedom stone by stone, trench by trench,
more mason than general, more architect than conqueror.
He fought for America, then bled for Poland,
but never belonged fully to either.
He carried liberty in his pocket like a compass,
offering it to all who hungered,
even those enslaved, even those history ignored.

Poland remembers him as a failed uprising,
America as a foreign helper.
But the truth is larger —
he was a bridge,
a man between worlds,
a man who knew that margins are where the real battles live.

I grew up in Florida,
the peninsula that America laughs at,
a child ostracized but indispensable.
Now I walk toward Poland,
the Slavic child the EU scolds,
but cannot do without.

In both places,
I feel the echo of Kościuszko:
understated, underestimated,
and yet unyielding.

He is not my idol —
idols are for worship.
He is my companion,
a reminder that freedom is rarely polished,
never granted from the center,
always carved from the edges,
by those who refuse to be dismissed.

it is the inky, only one, you will ever be gifted,
the others, you will need create from scratch...

In these days where
solving for Self, "Selving," dominates,
a long time,
now-all-the-time work,
this selling
of the cells of sel~awakening.

though, duty insists,
                                    I insert the Psalmist's wise words,

"There is nothing new under the sun'

a cautionary comma to reckless abandonment of senses,
instincts, passed down wisdom.

a hardy learned lesson that's
not needy
for forgetting,
advice offered up with a
compote of temerity, tenderness, timidity.
'tis:
    
                                  far, far better to fail well than not at all!

~
A blood promise
On the threshing floor
--a strand named Skull of Sidon.

The sunset passage
No longer a place for them,
The acceptance of absolute negation
Remedios the beauty.

Saint Fishermen churn in the waves
Crushing grapes from the estate,
Even the girl with the silver eyes,
Only then will their house be blessed.

Women uncharted,
But prisoned on watery shore,
Hum a silent prayer.

This is atonement day,
May grace be with them
In all the days ahead.
~

I was putting on jeans.
My dog was smiling.
Sun was coming in the window behind us.
We were there
reflected in the screen
of the old tv I had fixed myself.
A second sun
was reflected there with us.

I was young.
My dog was alive.
We would watch "The Adding Machine"
on the old tv that afternoon.
I was getting sober.
The room was small.
It was years ago
and I didn't know
that I would remember that morning
forever.

Kentucky cookie cutters are the best,
For cutting pieces out of your head.
Memories and distant pleas,
Erase with ease,
When you chop em out,
Using a Kentucky Cookie Cutter Thing.

Awaken refreshed, hush the alarm, time for another caper,
cuddle with the kitty, good morning, my fuzzy lil slayer!

Feed the furballs, cereal for me, start the coffee maker,
may be a good day today, at least it looks good on paper.

Drain the main, check the mirror, what-up my playa—
wait a sec, is it my self-hate, or am I a little greyer?

Inhale my morning nicotine with a sugary caffeine chaser,
hazelnut and doubt, mmm, that's my favorite flavor...

Brush and shave, step into the Hypothetical Argument Simulator,
hope follows soap down the drain—oh well—see ya later!

All dressed up, glance to verify the happiness imitator,
hold my chin up high, but only for the cologne sprayer.

Front door locked, start the car, on the lookout for hidden radar,
try to outrun the bitterness, traffic jam, wish this were single-player.

Make it to work in one piece, if just the outer layer,
brain boiling beneath, my good old trusty traitor.

she inquires why I write so many poems,
easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living,
it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation
of who I am...a miner of the
mineral wealth in my veins

Sacrament of an autumn park:
yellow wafers on green tongue,
blowsy refrains of early dark.
Head spilling and heart sprung,
I step across these broken shields
to a new-faced evening street
under clouds with bruisy weals
that peel, reveal white meat
of moon, sliced thin to eat
& maybe sate a null that gnaws,
a null that was born when I was:
a branch is incomplete
until the last leaf falls,
transfigured into scrawl.