Being a poet,
Is not something,

I say,

Being a poet,
Is not something,
Something you turn off and on,
It is the melody of your heartsong.

I got friends that say to me,
“I write poetry,”
But the problem is,
Their truth ain’t reality.

In trying to rhyme,
Their words all die,
**** them,
Let the real poets rage.

Rage, Rage against that night,
Where the horrors of life hold tight,
As the ****** walk home,
In the burgeoning light.

And the knolls of the city,
Hide the bums in respite.

That’s poetry.

I remember when I was young and beautiful,
And they were young and beautiful as well,
Each to her own right,
Possessing herself in herself and projecting herself as she thought she was.

Dancing in the light of low bars,
The Xmas lights twinkling blindly,
Only exacerbating the darkness,
Those two souls were trying to escape.

Can you take the dare and look when no one is looking?

Can you hear the shouting of Sheol in the whispers of the Saints?

She told me she was taking the job,
That I had told her to go for,
We knew the inevitable was inevitable,
And we consoled ourselves with the platitudes of promises meant for forever.

Forever never came,
But we still talk, we laugh, we cling to what was, what is,
A spark that flies upward,
Only to settle upon the ember of the bed of coals that makes us.

A gaggle of glamour girls,
Debutantes of Times gone by.

With talk of Aruba,
White Sands and clear blue waters,
Spoken to inspire jealousy to all those around.

And of organization,
Motherhood and label makers,
Construction of pigeon holes for every part of life.

And the Latino Girl at work,
Whispers of the lasciviousness of a life unknown,
In the silliness of two glasses of white wine each.


I smoke a barrier between them and me.

In an effusive hurried rush they leave,
In search of sustenance of the soul,
In search of Sisterhood.

I sit in a Dewar’s drought.

She walks by and grazes her fingertips across my back,
A touch of familiarity,
A touch that I long for.

Gently, I speak,
Within this microcosm,
You stand as Aphrodite.

Smiling, she goes about her work.

I return the appreciation,
The warmth of bad bourbon,
Exuding from my pores.

Cause I sit in a Dewar’s drought.

They sit down in the virility of youth,
Testosterone tilted hats,
Speaking the language of Poser Street,
In the melody of white noise.


Showcasing the uniforms of a self-created culture.

I turn and tune them out.

Mustard greens and butter beans and sweet cornbread all around,
And don't forget the crookneck squash, fried a deep and golden brown.

Mounds and mounds of butter, on the corn and on separate plates,
And Jesus’ blessings, our bodies to his service, before we satiates.

Buttermilk biscuits, pull-apart-monkey-rolls and corn muffins too,
And braided bread baked tenderly by Grandmother, just for you.

Country Ham and red-eye, fried chicken and sawmill gravy,
Ready to entice with all things sav’ry.

Sweet Vidalia onions sautéed in bacon fat,
‘Cause Big Daddy always knows, just where it’s at.

We gather together, hand in hand, pressed cheek to cheek in glee,
Our hearts knitted in happiness, we are family!

She grabbed me by the scruff of the beard,
And said, “You gorgeous man, you!”

I watched as she expressed herself,
All busy hands and ******* in the late spring cold.

All silver love and confidence,
with her secret, seducing soul.

I want to sing a song of my Mother,
Her passive/aggressive fight against my Father,
Whose oft repeated phrase was, “Go with the flow, son.”
“Just go with the flow…”
Then he would curse her to her face,
And she fought back the best she knew how…

“I hate you like I hate my own mother!” He cried.

She responded with quiet,
She responded with resolve.

I am her resolve,
******* Dad,
I am you and you are me.

But, I am her resolve,
I am her,
She is revealed.

The wind blew closed the Pastor’s Manual and I smiled,
As I looked out at the few faces gathered there.
The wind carried us into smaller groups,
Eli loved the flags of the Veteran’s and fascinated by the hole,
The wind blowing the drape to reveal its darkness.