Poetry might
actually be
the actual
spoor of God...
little testaments
Dropped in His wake
as He went about
silently creating,
then moused out later
and claimed
by the
roaring little mice
we now call
poets

Nobody likes a liar
Least of all me

And I know the difference

Having been a liar myself
some time back

But now
I'm an honest man

Trust me on that

Nothing to feed my unicorn
Just odes and chants
And hope

But it stomps and tramps
In vain for faith
At the far end
Of a rope

With ears laid back
And rolling eyes
And skyward pointing tine

Neverland never
Looked so good
But maybe it’s
Just the wine

Flattened cardboard boxes
A skateboard but no skate
Pogo stick, no Pogo

And stink of garbage
Under the sun

However did I
Respectable I
Get here after all?

I assure you
Ladies and gentlemen
Of the jury

I had no intent
I swear

To be anywhere
But where I was
Supposed to be

At 10:35 on the
Tuesday in question

I wanted a sandwich
But the cupboard
Was bare

So I settled for
just one beer

Just one beer
And now look

Man found wandering
Lost in plain sight

That swamp over there
Next door to my dream
Where I beat and holler
against these things
that fetter me
like religion

Hear the flap
and chuckle
of scavengers
arriving by the dozen

Come a cool bright wind
And blow this
dreaming
away

Just a tincture,
An infusion
if you will

Just the essence
of you
And I’ll be ok

Without it,
Bone-deep chill

I was stricken with you
But then I found
That you were stricken too

And I thought all along
it was me, not you
That ached and pined for two

The hard thing for me
Was finding out

Just who,
In fact,
Was who