People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.

In the midst lies the answer
In the distance, it lays in wait
To be brought out in its uttermost feelings
The anxiety is sometimes frightening
The distress terrifying
The effect suppresses the wait
The waiting prolongs
Past memories unshed themselves
A sudden chill unfolds finding no mercy
The mind finds everlasting peace
Leaving the soul to eternal emptiness.