where the night carries her silence,
her greys the bridging dome of sky,
her stones their blossomed ridge-

the moon’s half-circle bends
amid cloud, steps in
staccato, where the
stars can’t be seen;

i am less than the cloud
and the sky,
hardly breathing,
moon-ghosts in my hair,
moon-opals in my belly.

A pack of earnest individuals
Turned up at Tom's apartment for the wake;
Concupiscent philosophers intent
On explicating Wittgenstein and Kant,
And English post docs stuck somewhere in Joyce--
The river running through the lion's mouth--
A few of us on LSD, and Ron,
Blonde hair and chiseled, wistful midwest face,
Old granite in his rusted pickup bed,
Palimpsest still just traceable as Hall,
With d. and 18 something underneath,
Processing uphill in the cold dark night
To footsteps of the Hall of Languages,
Long climb of concrete steps, and parked his truck.
We clambered over sides and carried
That rock a little more than halfway up
Those daunting stairs that Delmore climbed in angst,
And Carver, breathing hard, in mourning for
America, romantic Reagan just
Elected president and my black dog,
As snow began to fall, just settling in.

before that,
we sat pinned
and winded
on steel hands
and plated masks
near the crimson
jade pools
by the killing fields
of bordeaux

we did not look
we could not look
our eyes blinded
and seared
by the charred remains
and shallow graves
the battered birch
and caliginous path

drifters and vagabonds
and kings of kings
held witness
to the pounding
and overkill
the blades
cauldrons
and burning sweet-grass
all brought forth by healers

rammers, sages
and holy front men
glance behind
(watching them sort
through the rubble
and *****)
the blood flow
spilling its warmth
throughout the
festering scene

they pulled the stops out
on this one ~
those sweated woodlands
and churned meadows
now framed
by a burned
and broken cross

autumn like winds
begin to chill
(casting spells over ground cover)
night lights flicker
beyond
the fallen trees

I've surveyed
highways, byways
waterways, caves
Woodland mounds
long dead towns
and never found
the distance between
love, loyalty, vows
words that somehow
get lost in time
less than light years
forgotten moments
gone because stars
die yet pretend
to shine fire on two
lovers who tire of one
or the other, like you
sleepy-eyed woman
so far down the hall
I've gotten lost walking
the long walk alone.

sweet as our lips,
summer boy,

dream of blue stone,
as the night flows like a tide,

burgeoning like a drifting
cloud,

you are my boy of dream,
blossomed from water
and moon,  from crystal light -

i long for you
summer boy,

as the last stars vanish,
blunted like the hills.

I learned the blues
too soon
and the pain
I gained
singing on dark nights
to the rain our plight
those who know loss
is just another cross
to bear for the dark guitar
strings piercing hearts
the cross spreading her legs
like a pair of pliers to make us beg
plucking nails from ****** fingers
picking scabs that seem to linger
through the calloused evil seasons
of high cotton and boll weevils.

some seconds
sear and brand
creating Self

no matter drive
to carve new
persona

early stain
rears serpent
head

heel bruised
sets timer
ticking

his demise
rebellion has
a price

for trails mocked
to mountain top
pristine snow

rivers fuelled
brashly strong
diverted

birth
pathways
forged

straight to
waiting
sea

Every farm boy knows that the first day of summer
Is that morning, that happy, glorious morning
In May when writing topic sentences
And solving for X are but fading ghosts

He’s up at dawn without being called even once
And pulling on his jeans and and boots and tee
He greets his fishing rod upon the rack
And Grandpa’s tackle box, which was left to him

Because

After breakfast and getting up the cows
For milking, he is the king of all his world

The world's abandoned us and left
Us reeling from its own devices,
Separating smaller slices,
Cold servers calculating theft,
Corrupting every sacred craft.
Women punished for their choices.
Hungry children got no voices.
Let's have a war, without the draft.
What worth in words the poet wrote,
Old gods could show us how to live?
Bad questions linger, bodies float.
Who knew the earth could cease to give?
I leave this ragged, tortured note.
And from this pen, I'll forge a shiv.