time
just a location in space
that keeps you in line
puts you in place
take some off
it takes your place
ticks you off
shapes your face
makes you late
consumes your days
makes you nervous
makes you wait
takes you out
takes itself
offers wealth
exchanges health
for similies
and nurse's smiles
and promises
to stay a while

It doesn't seem like
Christmas.
Mom and Dad are gone,
the kids are grown; There's no
snow on the ground, and
I'm in the psych ward again.
There is a dead dog loneliness
about the place.
All the patients are asleep,
and it's too early to get
my medicine.
Coffee has replaced
***** in my diet, and
I feel like I'm in a
battle without a shield.
Even the pen I wield
isn't as sharp as it
used to be.

rules for wars
and other fictions

and the grave digger
gives me a nod
hands me a shovel of thunder

what to tell the children?

shadows can't exist
without light
and on my bended knees
lightning in the air
looking up

what to tell
the little boys and girls?

be amused,
smile,

darlings, it's not odd, not at all

we humans shed our skin like snakes
and one man's freedom fighter
is another man's terrorist

hell broke loose in Palestine
hell broke loose in the Ukraine

the angels' weeping choir
and cat eyes turn grey as the sea

the cat stares into the fire
cold as the sea

child, have you seen some
awfulness?

what could it be?

my cat howls into the fire

what to say to the children?

(welcome to the night)

pawns and kings, the rooks
the bittersweet comedy
of the heart and other losers


what to tell the children?

In the thicka the Perth Road's pretence
millin aboot the fustian
o the ald "Hunter S." basement
(cuz there's nae Scottish writers ti name a pub efter)

cap scrapin the ceilin
Bohemian Monk Machine
gettin set on the tiny stage fir a bit o
funk-jazz-sumin-or-other

a hud ti step ootside
wee bit o fresh smoke
a few lads sauntered past in thir
designer gear an zirconian ears

"let's go in here -
nah, am no into country music"

it's ca'd Maker now but
ah it maks me is restless

Mom took my brother and
I to the cemetery when
we were kids.
Her mother and grandma
were there underneath the
grass and dirt.
The spring breeze felt
good on my face.
We put carnations and
lilacs on all the graves.
She told us stories about
our dead relatives.
The tombstones, with the
dates seemed ancient and
final.

After flowering all the
graves, we went to
the pond and fed
the ducks and swans.
There was a fire in
their eyes.
They were always
hungry.
They gobbled the bread
and swam in circles.

When we became
teenagers, Mom took
us to the cemetery, and
taught us how to drive.
She said it was
safer there.
We couldn't ****
anyone.

Many years later
I took my little sons to
cemetery.
I showed them all
the graves and told
the old family stories.
"That's your grandma,"  I said,
pointing to the tombstone.
"She brought me here,
when I was your age."

My oldest son, Zach, who was
seven at the time said,
"When I get old,
I'm going to bring my kids
here to visit the family.
Will you come with us, Daddy?"
"Sure", I said.
Let's feed the swans.

In prison
when you have no
money, and you can't
buy commissary, and
the hours and the days drag by
like a tortoise searching
a garden.
It's the little things that
make the time bearable.
Someone gives you a package of
noodles or a cup of coffee,
or a bar of good soap.
Kindness in hell goes a long way.
It's the simple pleasures that
I took for granted
that I relish now:
Steaming hot water,
a bed with a real mattress,
and a library with thousands
of books to read.
I have writing paper,
ink pens, and reading glasses to
see with; it could be worse.