The difference is subtle,
Fairly or daunting,
Something of crumbles of nothing,

For families,
Friends abroad,
Just have what you'd like,
From this great wide feast,
Chase the Galaxy a mile away,
Dying and birthing like clay


Down,
With the icicle blow,
To the chest and through the neck,

Against the evening sky,
Awhile the nights went by,
When I found the picture of me and you

When the son said "Father
What must I do'
I'll do it no matter the cost."
The Father replied,
"There's only one thing to do
You must follow the road to the cross."

Mocked and scorned and beaten
He gave his life
For the lost;
He did not wish to go
But he followed the road to the cross.

The way to the cross isn't easy
It's narrow and it's straight;
But it's a road that must be taken
If we're to enter Heaven's gate.

Such a tragic invention
Mr.Montana,
Such a bad idea,
So very far from the essence,

I am searching for your,
Everyday approval,

In desire I see what you need,
Mostly,

As I said previously,
To the black brown bear staring at me,

"Droies betin' me say say I" like a line off a film long forgotten,

I'm a makeshift lifeless doll to this ****** world of crime and hatred,

If you die alone I said to myself,
I'll call you on the little fuzzy phone,
While sitting in the Styrofoam,
Waiting for the heavenly splendors,
To answer again,

Save me from this ****** depression,
The dog howls to God alone,

His voice rings like chirping birds,
And flies like spinning daises

HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.

Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.

They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****.

As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.

It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.

He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."

Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.

How can I tell how Don Magregor went?

Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.

The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.

There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.

"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.

Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.