Three burly sheriffs showed
up at my neighbors
house yesterday.
Scowls on scarred faces.
Tattered lives, tarnished
brains.
Five minutes later,
they were walking my
friend out in handcuffs.
He shuffled, head down.
Autumn frowned and the
leaves scuttled away in
disgust.

Today, the vultures swooped
in, picked the bones of all
his earthly possessions that
littered what was once his
front lawn.
Jackals, and hideous
hyena faced men and
women took the last of
his things.  

Even though he was
arrested, he still
grows.
and although they are
free, they die more
daily in their own
private evictions.
I've seen more
humanity at a
hanging.

Ferrel cats creep
under porches
to escape the  
rain and snow.
Some have half  
a tail
or a missing ear.
My cats watch
them from the
safety of
the warm house.
They chirp, and
stare.

I wonder if
these pitiful
orphans once had
a home and
knew love.
Did the owner
abandon them to
be unburdened by
empathy.

I wish I could
save those wild
cats,
those princes of
the alleys.

Sometimes, they wander
over to my porch.
I put a can of
tuna out.
They look at
me with cautious
green or golden eyes.
I tell them,
it’s going to be
Alright.
I know it’s a
lie.
Winter is coming.
But I feel  
better for a second.
And that’s all that
matters in this
playground of a
world.

Don’t you think?

Her lips are like
wet orchids, dressed in
the spring rain,
waiting to be
kissed and
caressed.

It won't be a silent
night this Christmas in
the Psych Ward.
There are some real
wack jobs in here.
One guy grabbed his crotch,
and said, 'I have hold of all my faculties.'
The nurse asked him what
drugs he was on,
He said, 'It's not the drugs that are
the problem, it's the women.'
Maybe he's not as crazy as I thought.
I shouldn't talk; I'm getting
ECTs (Electra Convulsive Therapy)
One of the side effects is
memory loss. I hope they make me
forget the last woman in my life.
Life is so odd.
I'm locked in the nuthouse,
getting shock treatments.
She's home in her apartment,
cooking and cleaning,
crazy and mean as a ****-house rat.

It’s strange on
days like this.
December 30th, 2024.
The temperature reached
60 degrees today.
An ice fisherman
died on the lake.

It’s strange on
days like this,
when winter plays
a charade.
I open the windows
and let the breeze in.
My cats run around the
house, and think it’s
spring.
They wag their
tails and watch the
squirrels hide nuts.

And on strange
days like this,
I look around my
room, at the pictures
on the wall.
Hemingway
Van Gogh
Picasso
and I wonder if
they ever thought that  
they would die someday.

I think about it.

It’s hard to envision.
I’m so alive when I
sit in the hot jacuzzi
and watch the bubbles
and steam.
I water the plants,
exercise, and take
vitamins.
I will be gone one day.
The rivers will still
flow and wind, and the clouds  
will
float slowly by, and
chocolate will still taste so
sweet.

I wonder if
Vincent, Pablo, or
Earnie ever thought about
the strange tricks the
seasons play on us.

The birds started
singing at ten to four
this morning;
coaxing the dawn on
with their song.

The *** would be
great on the clouds
that I saw yesterday.
They looked like
rows of fresh
cauliflower.
Every position would be
a little miracle;
perfect depth and
perception.

The sweat stung
my eyes as I
smoked in the
sweltering July
sun.
I wish I could
live in the clouds...
No job
No taxes or tired back.
Just relaxing in
that puffy white
perfection.

Evening sky reflects
on the glass lake.
The soldier of a
tree carries on
through the lonesome
night.
If we could only
see the dreams of
the fish,
far from the
frying pan.