I don't
understand why
my mind
drifts to thoughts
of you, in the
spring when I'm
alone in the woods.
The dew is on the
grass, and the small
flowers begin to
bud, the petals
slippery and wet,
glistening in the
morning
sun.
The birds sing
their symphonies of
praise, and the trees,
***** and strong, reach
to the waiting sky.
The rain shoots
down, and I
rest.

In all the smashed cat in the road days of
hungover afternoons, and empty pocket
mornings, one constant wherever I was
were the trips to the library.

I read most everything back then:
Hamsun
Hemingway
Steinbeck
Fitzgerald
Eugene O’Neil, and Gogol,
and always Bukowski.
They were my lighthouse in the
abysmal fog of street life, and the
abscessed ocean of bent dreams.
The greats could always squeeze juice from
the words and I drank them down in
those lonely city libraries.  
It mixed well with the ***** and whiskey.

Some of the libraries had security guards.
Their job was to yell, “No sleeping”, as they
walked by, like witnesses at a hanging.
I dozed in those comfortable chairs,
noon light bathing me in golden peace.
I was a knight, the hero, Thomas, the great.
I hated those ******* for waking me up.
I’d rise and wander around to stay awake.  

Every time,
everywhere,
there she’d be,
my, clean, quiet, well-read, heavenly librarian.
Brown hair in a bun, large glasses, and usually
a silk blouse and tweed skirt, **** as sin.  

I watched her for hours.  I wrote about her,
the way she moved and talked and smelled of
lilies and jasmine.
I made up scenes of wild *** in the
fiction section on top of
Dostoyevsky and Joyce,
Huckleberry Finn and Tropic of Cancer.
Miller and Nin would have blushed.

I pictured her bent over the banister by the
travel book section on the third floor.
I’ve got her skirt hiked up over her ***,
and I’m in Wonderland, El Dorado, and the
Emerald City all rolled into one.
She guided me through suicidal days and made
the wait to become a writer a worthwhile utopia.

Alive
Too young to care
Busy with living loud
Born on the wind, my youth flew by
Quickly.

My 10th grade year,
Dad put my brother,
Tobin and I in a  
private school in  
Camarillo California.  
  
Mom sent us  
to live with him after  
we traded our  
education, back in  
Des Moines, for **** and  
sitting around  
listening to Led   
Zeppelin records in the  
basement.  
We had it all figured out.  
  
Before we started
a day of class, we  
went on a week-long   
skiing trip to  
Sequoia National Park.  
I loved that school.  
A passion grew in  
me for literature,   
Melville and Dickens,  
Dylan Thomas and the  
rest of the greats visited  
me in my dreams.  
They were good, gentle  
nights back then. 
 
I wrote a paper on  
Billy Budd, and received a C  
for my weak effort.  
Dad explained aspects of  
the story:  
plot  
theme  
antagonist  
protagonist  
and tragic character flaws.  
I didn’t get a C again on  
anything to do with  
literature.  
I was still inept  
with the numbers game.  
Math didn’t hold my  
Interest.  
It dog-paddled, then drowned in  
my budding poet brain.  
  
I had a gorgeous Dutch  
Girlfriend, Van Vleck or  
Van something or other.  
I acted in the play,  
and started at small   
forward on the   
basketball team.  
I even got into a  
fight with a kid for  
telling the principal that  
he sold me a little ****.  
I was suspended for a week,  
but Dad didn’t seem to  
mind that much.  

He gave me a copy of   
Don Quixote, and told   
me to write an essay a day.  
Back then, I was  
the prince of the private school.  
 I started to care about  
learning.   
The teachers taught with  
zeal and zest.  
The lust for literature was  
born in me  
beneath that smiling  
West Coast sunshine, and  
melancholy California fog.

There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in the wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.

I am so happy to announce the publication of my new book, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, available on Amazon.  I also read my poetry on my youtube channel.
Thanks to everyone for this great site.

Chess in the
afternoon sun.
Jazz floats over
the silky couch.
Backs ache, while
hearts break.
Bishop takes knight,
and France falls again.

The masks are all
broken under the
cerulean blue skies,
while she eats berries,
and smiles in her
pink polka dot dress.
The pawns are all smug,
and Queenie's on the rag.
Italy surrenders, and from
the grave, Charlie Parker
still hammers home
those soft amber notes.
I can smell her heat, and
I think they play
jazz in hell.