Fluid like the Guinness that flows from the oil rust taps, rapid and white battered. It laps quickly between every bridges thigh, whining as waves do in captivity. The air is thick and dewy in the Galway harbor. Each breath tastes saltier than the next. The rush, the rapid race signals the open sea. Spring could not come sooner than is demanded. Still six old rust stained fishing boats bob along the mossy stonewall. Untouched. The flow churns quicker; the longer the eye stands in gaze. A ***** yellow sign signals caution –a stolen ringbouy, a stolen life. And there amid the unrest I like to rest and reflect beside fettered waters whose tempest surface hides my face.

I am not alone,
the troubled waters
call my name.

come choked up bled up fed up folks
and drink my robust brew my sweet Catawba
no, my sauterene or rock and rye
brush that musty blue off your cog stained collar
and stay a while
pay a while
two beers later when your tongue seethes dry
try my salt savored fish, my baked bean surprise
tilt your nostrils and inhale my dried herring
my free lunched ties really please the eyes
I’ll saturate your wet drawn gobs
like sand slips through sieves  
teasing you by my strategic arrayed feast
until dollars are quenched out
by watering tongues that then dry the eyes
so come stand social where men may be men
enter through my wood swinging shut
-tered realm
and slug down your ticking inhibitions
gobble up this wonderful enterprise
and leave with that coat savored
by the mixed smell of sawdust, alcohol and cigars
hell, there’s no manners here
and class only exists in tolerance
for it feeds a fine exchange for a parcel of wage
to forget that day you bonded your body to your lady’s gaze
to forget the rascals of tots that teeth at you feet
to forgot the boss that tills your knees
so lets play mirror medley choose your poison
and chose it quick
this may be the Poor Man’s Retreat
but pocket less men make me tick

Unfamiliar furniture trims the parlor room
embellished with odd relics
of histories past.
Their eerie faces haunt me
incriminating
this momentous hour
my mother’s voice fades away to gray
Be strong, be strong . . .

It has begun
Are there telephones in heaven?
Maybe it’s a one-way call.
My cryptic eyes dart a heavy daze
hiccupping on salty streams that overflow composure
But he is the essence of grace,
a beautiful surrender.

Step forward into the light
that shines upon infallible judgment,
my turn to wager peace
with this glorious king,
this King of May!
Blooming virtues in my ears.
I am still the apple of your eye.

I riffle through timely prayers
that floats aloof to I don’t know who?
I say old man forgive me
for you are right:
I will forget what you have said.
Nor will I remember things you’ve done.
But I will
never forget how you
have made me
Feel…