She walks in beauty, like the night
   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
   Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
   Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
   Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
   Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
   How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
   A heart whose love is innocent!

It all began
with injustice
when the innocence
of a child was stolen
and set you floating
like a butterfly
to sting
Liston
Patterson
Frazier
Foreman
and so many others
who failed
to knock you down

But when your wings
were clipped
you stood
like a man
and given the choice
between jail or war
you chose justice
and won your
greatest battle

by unanimous decision

I see her
in a mirror broken

jagged lines
and tiny gaps
with darkness in
the spiral cracks

between the flashes
brilliant

of eyes that hypnotize
and drown
in their unblinking
gaze

the wisps of hair
that never stay behind
ears pierced with
pearl
studs and turquoise

crimson in
her
lips revealing
wonder in smiles
and awe
and tears

in juxtaposition
all
angles and angels
glowing

there is beauty

in a mirror
broken

Let's fly away
to Jupiter Moon,
Come along with me,
We'll be there soon

The view is heaven
on Jupiter Moon,
We'll see the Sun shine bright,
The rings of Saturn too

We can stay all day
on Jupiter Moon,
And wander all around,
There's plenty of room

And when the night does come
on Jupiter Moon,
No need to close our eyes
For dreams to come true

Let's fly away
to Jupiter Moon,
Come along with me,
We'll be there soon

It's empty now,
big dark empty spaces,
except for where the light
comes through in shafts
between the splintered
wood and cracks
and holes we made
on hot summer days

punching through our
youthful exuberance
and wide-eyed innocence
laughing like screech owls
falling from the sky after
a night of too much shine

And it lingers,
the smell of purest sweat
from pores of exploration
singing out to cries of
wild abandonment
in the breeze that flutters
paisley and polka dots
with plaid and denim
patched in the worn
out spots

And it's there,
still after rainstorms
and duststorms and
windstorms and
the constant tug of war
between the scorching sun
and the balmy moon

The paint we brushed
on barely dry wood, with
old bristles bunched in
clumsy handles, wielded
by fresh beginnings

Weathered, seasoned,
chipped, peeling,
ingrained and
hanging on

Still there

Finnegan, begin again
is it time to wake?
The belfry bats are singing
from the yew trees, "heigh **
heigh ** heigh hooooo . . . "
as lips lip fleshless lips of air
Bloom clinks a glass with
M'Intosh, "Three quarks
for Muster Mark!" and
Stephen drinks tea from
lotus flowers poured by
Nausicaa while sirens call
between the clashing rocks

"Come home Telemachus, come
home Penelope, come home
Mary, come
home . . . "

Has its flaws

I felt it on the back of my neck,
a puff at first, licking at the sweat
soaked threads of tangled hair
that lay complacent on a broad reach

Telltales of the human kind that
whisper to the meta states before
transforming into siren calls of
change, something different,
something new, something
longed for in the quiet doldrums
trapped by endless drifting
on the boundless sea

My body turned instinctively
to face the tease, while my mind
remained behind, still stuck in
the quicksand grip of fading
memories, and slow surrender

And then the spray, from a swell
across the bow, a jolt of innocence
against a wall of indecision,
splashing hard my cheeks and
forehead, stinging splintered
lips and wincing unfocused eyes

A sudden rise came next, followed
by its fall, to weave their way into
a gentle roll that slowly
rocked the beam

Announcing arrival of the gusts,
scattered bursts at first, a panoply
of warm and cool that pressed
against my back and swam around
to fill, then leave the yearning sails

I hauled the sheets in closer, hoping
to capture the moment of the wind,
and though my preplanned destination
called the course I had been on, I
turned the wheel against the grain
and bid farewell, to the lee shore

I gazed out into the distance, where
whitecaps smiled at me, I smiled back
cranking sheets to the full
measure of the keel, and rode the
surging waves oncoming, taking
the howling wind on filling,
with its breath

my lungs, once again

With wings delivered,
he escaped the labyrinth
that once was prison to
the mighty minotaur, and
then to Daedalus in its stead

His patriarchal path before him,
his flight to safety was begun,
but freedom still remained
beyond his reaching grasp,
beyond the edge of his horizon,
freedom still remained

And so he strayed, from what
he knew to what he dared,
and left behind familiar shores,
searching for release from chains
still binding, searching
still for something more

He paid no heed to warnings
that only held him to his past,
and answered cries of sorrow
with distance rising, fast
into the clouds, away from
mourning eyes and far
from clutching hands,
he flew away, into the sky
and then into the sun

With wings reclaimed,
he escaped the labyrinth
that once was prison to
his dreams, the fountain
of his thoughts and
visions yet unseen

With wings reclaimed,
he fell into the sea
and rose up to the surface,
where he would breathe free

When snowmelt
from the highest peaks
cascades into valleys
below, it rushes down
arroyos, leaping over
boulders, circling
round eddies,
and settles into
lakes and pools
that echo
the azure sky

Along the way,
it finds itself
in blades of rising
grass, on barren
meadow floors

and in the roots
of ancient trees, that
sip no more than
they need to fill
their budding leaves

They emerge slowly,
from dormant slumber
stretching, like monarch
wings unfolding, giving
homage to the sun

And then they bloom,
in vibrant multicolored
celebration of the
renaissance declaring,
the arrival of a new day

And they give sustenance
to the twigs and branches
and the trunks, whose
toes reach deep into
the soil, and they
give themselves
to winter's spring

And they give themselves
to the fleeting wind

It's dust, mostly
the kind that burrows
deep into the creases
of his forehead
and hides inside
the crinkles
around his eyes

It's forever stuck
to the soles of his boots
and never rinses out
of his denims
in the river,
not entirely

And it finds a way
to roll with beads
of sweat in dripping
lines exposing
parchment skin

but somehow never
penetrates the ring
around his head,
preserved forever
by his stetson's brim

And it's also ashes
from chaparral
and tumbleweeds,
lit up in circles
where he camped

leaving a trail
of where he's been,
like breadcrumbs
swept away in a
restless breeze

It's the creaking sound
of leather in his saddle
and the rhythmic
thud of horseshoes
pounding sunbaked ground

It's the wind in his face
that grits his teeth
and squints his
glassy eyes

It's standing in the stirrups
to fly above the racing plain,
keeping balance
with the whipping mane

It's the endless sky,
and the horizon
that never fades

But mostly,
it's the dust
that he holds
in upraised palms

slipping through
his fingers, disappearing
from his touch

in the wild and still
untamed range

He wore people
like tattoos
acquired over time
in both public
and private places

beginning with
the rub-on kind
that are cool and
breezy easy
until they rub off

and then the
colors of his crew
stuck deep into his
skin with toxic
overflow that spills
into his veins

His arms were filled
with symbolic power
that reigned on sleeveless
days but sought shelter'
in the blankets of cold
sleepless nights

and on his chest were
memories of loves
gained and lost
revealed only in
naked truthful
moments

some still pristine
others fading
but cherished
unlike the ravaged
scars of those
ripped or torn away

And on his back
were those unseen
and few they were
but fewer still
were those he knew
who still remained

invisible to him
but there where
everyone else
could see

So **** simple
and
So **** hard to see

Won't you lend your lungs to me
Mine are collapsing
Plant my feet and bitterly breathe
Up the time that's passing
Breath I'll take and breath I'll give
Pray the day's not poison
Stand among the ones that live
In lonely indecision


Fingers walk the darkness down
Mind is on the midnight
Gather up the gold you've found
You fool it's only moonlight
And if you stop to take it home
Your hands will turn to butter
Better leave this dream alone
Try to find another


Salvation sat and crossed herself
And called the devil partner
Wisdom burned upon a shelf
Who'll **** the raging cancer
Seal the river at it's mouth
Take the water prisoner
Fill the sky with screams and cries
Bathe in fiery answers


Jesus was an only son
And love his only concept
Strangers cry in foreign tongues
And ***** up the doorstep
And I for one and you for two
Ain't got the time for outside
Keep your injured looks to you
We'll tell the world that we tried

Packages are beautiful,
resplendent in their colors
bright and cheerful,
attractive in their shape
and tempting in
appearance, wrapped
in ribbons richly hued
with curlicues and bows

We love to carry them
about, showing everyone
how fortunate we are
to have such gifts
in our possession,
letting everyone join
our wonder about
what may be
in there

But I prefer a plain
brown wrapper
bearing no disguise,
or better yet the
contents revealed
to my eyes

To me, it's not the
package that's important,
it's what's inside

Let go the ashes
of the forest's searing fall
and find the seedling
rising up to drink the rain

Lift your lashes
from acid rivers flowing
and gaze upon the mirrored pool
capturing the morning sky

Unleash the torment
locked away inside and fill
the empty space with voices
singing chorus to your dreams

Wash away the blood
from bruised and battered limbs
and let the sun find you
basking in its rays

A pebble
can take down
a Goliath

A rebel
can dethrone
a King

A willing mind
can conquer
Anything

Santayana said,
"Those who cannot
remember the past
are condemned
to repeat it"

but did not mention
that today
is tomorrow's past

There are secrets in the wind
that runs its fingers
through your hair
tossing about a wild ballet
of unruly ripples and waves

It lifts homemade kites
from calloused hands
toward heaven, in leaps and loops
and crazy twirls that swoop the ground,
whispering to the grass
and shouting at the roaring sea

It caresses a warm breeze
in the cool twilight
of a lazy summer's eve
and unleashes fury
in chaotic rage
across the alleys
of midwestern plains

The wind listens
to the first cry of newborn babes
and carries away
the last breath of vanquished men

It fills the sky with unbound wonder
and settles in the leaves of ancient trees
that rock and sway to the rhythm
of its secret splendor

It was a day like this,
in March; smiling blue sky,
cheering wind, chill and brisk

A day like this, on the Charles

It was a good day
for sailing, hiking out
side by side, racing upwind
‘til feathers by the bridge
rocked us like babes,
laughing verses of Rimbaud
lamenting Milton
and the Arch-Fiend

We sailed circles round the eights
sculling their way to Henley;
we called them slaves
and gestured like Merry Pranksters

We tacked and jibed, glided downwind,
and on a broad reach, we saw Prufrock
standing on shore, downcast,
as mermaids slipped on board
and sang with us:

A verse for Nausicaa
A chorus for Eidolon

I hear the falcon
but not the falconer;
its prescient screech
claws at my ears

The shadow of its wings
is delivered by the sun
but those who gather
in its path cry out in vain

The worst conflate
their ways with
passionate intensity,
belied by lack of
true sincerity

And yet the best
decline to rise or cease
virtue as vulnerability;
they watch unwittingly

as the falcon turns above,
finding no footsteps
into Bethlehem

You were Ukraine
Now you are my land
But you didn't know all the ways I owned you, no
So you took a chance
And made other plans
But I bet you didn't think that they would come crashing down, no

You don't have to say, what you did,
I already know, I found out from Yanukovych
Now there's just no chance, for you without me, there'll never be
And don't it make you sad about it

You told me you obeyed me
Why did you leave me, all alone
Now you tell me you don't need me
When you call me, on the phone
Sovereignty I refuse, you must have me confused
With some other ruler
Your bridges are burned, and now it's your turn
To cry, Crimea river
Crimea river-er
Crimea river
Crimea river-er, yea yea

You
are the living breathing expression of a singular moment in the unyielding march of time

You
are unique as the shape of a newly formed crystal emerging from a storm filled cloud, finding its way to a bed of freshly fallen snow

You
are the flow of a river running through canyons, soothing edges from clashing stones, sparkling now and then in the rays of the sun and the sated beams of a harvest moon

You
are the beat of a drum in a warlord's prance and the breath of a flute in a diva's dance

You
are the present, the instant, the essence of the distilled day

You
are nevermore

You
are forevermore

You

“Good afternoon, Mr. Leitch.  Have you had a busy day?”

     Grey eyes peered over wireframe spectacles and gazed upon a vision that lifted the corners of his mouth.  “Yes, quite.  Thank you for asking.  So lovely to see you again, my dear.”

     As she entered the tailor’s shop and lithely traced her fingers across yards of brightly colored silk, and muted finely woven wool, her companion quietly assembled outside the entrance door.  He had selected a prime location adjacent to the neighboring baker’s store.  At that hour, the wafting mixed aromas of warm cookies, cakes, baguettes and shepherd’s bread would lure workers of the day from their homeward paths for just a bit of something to fill their evening meals, or add a little nuance to the setting of the sun.

     “And you as well, kind Sir.  I do adore observing the mastery in the magic of your finery.”

     “Well now, what a lovely thing to say.  And I adore listening to you as well.  But no more of that ‘Sir’ business.  You must call me ‘Arthur,’ as I have said before.”

     “Ah, then no more of that ‘dear’ business.  You must call me ‘Kathy,’ and we shall both listen to more lovely sounds that will soon fill this room.”

     At that moment, when the tailor’s eyes began to sparkle, Kathy’s companion began to strum a well-seasoned lute as he sang a refrain from an old Yorkshire ballad:

          Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Remember me to one who lives there
          For once she was a true love of mine

Then slowly, a crowd began to gather, one-by-one and in twos and threes, of those emerging from the bakery or simply passing by, as lamplights began to glow against the evening sky.    

          Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Without a seam or needlework
          Then she shall be a true love of mine

Entwined within the strumming, individual notes came alive and danced their way across the frets and fingerboard to leap and float about the crowd.  In time with the rhythm and the melody, pence and schillings soon found their way into the instrument’s open case, sounding light percussive accompaniment and applause.

     And then as though entranced, Kathy twirled about the tailor’s shop and took the tailor’s hand, to lead him out into the square and join the merry band.  She smiled a wondrous look, with eyes closed to the scene around her, as she gazed upon the vision within her, and her sweet voice shared its verse:

          Tell him to find me an acre of land
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Between the salt water and the sea sand
          Then he shall be a true love of mine

Then Kathy gave a laugh or two, and raised her arms to the incandescent night, as a blackbird perched itself atop the crescent moon, resting in the palms of her hands.

If he loves himself
more than you,

Then he is only one,
not two

When Theia crashed
Into the Earth
Four billion years ago,
It was initially
Absorbed
And then let go,
To orbit for eternity in unwinding rings and slow

When Voyager
Flew past Jupiter at
Breakneck speed
or more, it caught
A glimpse and teased
Propulsion that
paused
The giant just a bit,
Every
Trillion
Years
Or
So

They're not undoable
but they are reversible
if you stop and realize

that braille on your skin
meant for the blind
cannot be read
by those who cannot feel

shouting at deaf ears
will only rob you
of your voice
and drown out anyone
who cares

There is no way
to take away
inflicted pain with more

A one-eyed man
can be a King
or condemned

in the land
of the blind

It's yours, baby
sip a little
chug a lot
throw it in the river
or polish out the spots

Break it
melt it
paint it
cap it with a candle
or fill it up again
with *****
or perfume

Because it's yours, baby
no deposit
no return

She thought she felt
the world
crumpling all around her
falling in pieces
darkening her skies
suffocating all the joy
within her

And when she felt
the heavy
blanket of despair
draped wearily
upon her
tears began
flowing into pools
beneath her
and she began
floating on
dissolving grief
within her

And then she felt
nothing
of the pain inside her
nothing
of the time that stalked her
nothing
of the ragged skin that enveloped her
nothing
of the memories that haunted her

Until she felt
a new shape
forming in the darkness
tenderness
spreading from her fingertips
embracing her shoulders
caressing her cheeks
as her lashes fluttered
at dimly sparkling rays

And then she felt
her limbs
stretching from confinement
her lips
drinking in sweet breath
her eyes
seeing past imagination

A new beginning
emerging
in a familiar
world slowly

Like the dusted wings
of a painted lady
unfolding to the skies

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

It's more like rustling leaves
from pianissimo
to crescendo
above the tapping
drips of rain
in puddles circling
round the dangling feet
of waterspouts

and the trilling ring
a brassy bell delivers
swinging from the strike
of an opened door  
as dampened shoes
skip shuffle and slide
inside the musty lair
of an old bookstore

all measured by
the syncopated
clapping beat
of hooves
on cobblestone
in time with
carriage wheels
and drumbeat hoods
of rocking cabriolets

He paints from sound
that whistles in the wind
and freefalls from the sky
that bounces in the streets
and whispers to his eyes
that nestles in his pallet
and mixes in his dyes

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

when you see his aria
composed by strokes
from brushes
dipped in sound

He was chomping on a dog
a chili dog to be exact
when he heard a crunch
and felt a pain that seemed
unusual to his lunch

So with all the grace
that he could muster
he spit out all the dog
and the chili and the mustard
then smiled a toothless grin
when in the chili he could see
a bicuspid mixed therein

He had been waiting for this day
to the point where almost all
his nerves had frayed and
more than all his hair had grayed

But now he knew for certain
there would be no final curtain
for at least another act
because his bicuspid
had given way
to his third set of teeth

Black holes are only temporary
says Stephen Hawking in reverse
and the deathly grip of gravity
is released before finality
extinguishes identity
from the Universe

He must have found that memory
can survive a voodoo curse
and bring back sanity to
a world of unreality
before some tragedy
takes you away
from us

As fire spread
across the break
and down the face
of the next hill

he rose silhouetted
against the blaze
and turned to say
he would be back

before the wind
after the calm

He gathered up his gear and
clambered down the ridge
to clear the valley wall
as far as he would dare

as embers rained like fireflies
inside the flakes of falling snow

And when the storm erupted
swirling all around him
he turned again
this time to say
he would be there

after the wind
before the calm

When I lie down
I see
stairways in the
winding branches
of trees

When I rise up
I see
who climbs their
steps along
with me

Some nurses came rushing in because his monitors had been going haywire, and they kicked me out of his room. I was glad at first, because I was beginning to feel his pain. When he was talking about that little boy, I started to think about my own boy, and how he died with my wife when the car I was driving went off the road. And I started to see his face, all covered in blood, and looking up at me for help, and I remembered how I tried, I tried everything I knew how, but it wasn't enough, I wasn't enough, and he got taken away from me. He and his mom got taken away from me. And I feel as though I died in that crash too, but my body stayed behind. And I've been trying to go with them, but my body won't let me. Not completely. It's like part of me has gone to find them but the rest of me can't catch up, and I'm in agony as I try to pull and push and rip and tear and claw away at whatever's holding me back.

     And I've been trying to wash all that blood from my boy's face, so I could see him, and he would be all right again. But I haven't had anything but tears to wash that blood away. And at first they flowed like rivers, and then like streams, and then like rain. And then slowly they ran out, there just wasn't any more. And sometimes I see his face, and sometimes he's even smiling, and sometimes my wife is there too. But it's not enough, it's never enough. I want more, I need more, I want to feel my boy tugging on my hand, and hear him laughing at my jokes, and watch him catching a ball when I throw it to him. I want to feel his arms around my neck hugging me so tight I can hardly breathe. I want to feel my wife's hand, and her heart beating against my chest when she puts her arms around me. I want to feel her breath on my neck as she smiles and laughs at the day. I want them back so much there's no room for anything else inside me, just that want, that need, that ******* hole of an ache, to have them back again.

     And all these years I've been trying to dull that pain, day after day, hour after hour, bottle after bottle, ounce after ounce. And I've been building scars, like bricks in a wall, to try and keep the hurt away. But listening to that guy in the hospital, I felt like his words had been picking away at those scars and tearing down those walls. And then, after seeing my boy's face again, and thinking about my wife, I felt like l needed that pain. That somehow it gets me closer to them and maybe I'll lose them if I stop feeling whatever is tearing away at me. So I went back to see him the next day, and we talked for a real long time, and made a pact to go up to his village and try to get the herring and seal to recover, and to fight the oil companies, and kumbaya. And I gave him my number to call me when he got out of the hospital if he needed a place to crash, and he said he would. And about a week later I got a call, but it wasn't from him, it was from a deputy sheriff in the next county saying they had found my number in the pocket of a guy who had been beaten to death and it was all he had on him and would I come over and identify the body?

     I went over there and it was him lying on a slab in the morgue. I just couldn't leave him there, so I called that lawyer who got me out of jail and she was kind enough to help me make arrangements to have his body sent to his village for burial, and she lent me some money to go along. I wasn't sure how his father would react, or what would happen when I got there, but I knew that I had to keep up my end of the pact that I had made with my friend.

     It was time now, so I took a final look around. The apartment looked smaller somehow, now that it was empty. Then I grabbed my bags, opened the door and said to the wind, "OK Irniq, let's go home."

Goldie was a fish
swimming in a bowl
where everyone could see
her very tiny role

only when they chose
to look and then
she would disappear
when they would leave

her dreaming of the sea
and reaching for the sky
until the day she found
that she could fly

When I got to the hospital, the nurses told me he was still recovering from surgery for some internal injuries and this and that, but I could go see him for a bit. So I went up to his room and realized that I didn't really know what he looked like, other than blood and bruises, but I could still tell it was him by the way the bandages were wrapped around his head. "Hey Chief," I said, "howya doin'?" This time I knew he was conscious but he didn't say anything. He just gave me this look like he was saying, "Who are you?" and "How do I get rid of you?" at the same time. So I replied, "I know your name is Mitchell, but I figured the only way you'd remember me is if I called you 'Chief,' like I did before." That got his attention and he threw me this sudden, glowering stare for what seemed like a real long time, like he was trying to make up his mind about something. I thought I had ****** him off with that "Chief" crack, but then he said real soft,  "My name's not Mitchell."

     That suprised me a bit, so all I could say was, "But that's who's room this is, according to the nurses."

     "Maybe so. But that's not my real name . . . It's just a name I made up."

     "What, you on the run or something?"
    
     "Something like that."

     "And you ain't a Marine?"

     "How'd you . . . ?" Another stare, and then, "Nope. Not now. I was though."

     "I don't get it."

     "Mitchell was a name I made up when I joined the Corps . . . "

     "So, why did you make up a name? . . . You got a record?"

     "Nothin' like that . . . My real name is Irniq . . . It's an old Inuit name. When I joined up, I thought I was puttin' those days behind me."

     "Inuit . . . What's that, a kind of Indian?"

     "It means, 'People' . . . but you prob'ly think of us as 'Eskimos.' We don't like that name, so we don't use it."

     He stopped looking in my direction and kinda tilted his head back and rolled his eyes back before closing them. Then he took a few real deep breaths, and said, "I grew up in a village that was mostly hunters and fishermen. It was fun, when I was little, kind of like goin' on an adventure all the time. But as I got older, I realized how dirt poor we were and how we seemed to catch less game every season. And then I learned that our tribe owned land that the oil companies wanted to drill, and that the oil money could end our need to hunt, and get us modern, comfortable lives, but the tribe kept clingin' to their old ways. My father said it was oil that wiped out the herring habitats, and caused the seal population to crash, and was keepin' the ice away. I didn't care and thought he was a fool fightin' a losin' battle. I thought I saw the future and that he was goin' down with the past. We had terrible fights and I believed that the man who had once been this mighty hero of mine had turned into a pathetic has-been, and I didn't want to get dragged down with him. I thought that by leavin', I could somehow be part of the future. I didn't have too many places to go, so I joined the Marines."

     "Then what are you doing here?"

     He dropped his head forward, opened his eyes, locked them right on to mine, and said, "I left the Corps a couple of months ago. When I joined up, my father told me he no longer had a son. I guess I didn't really hear those words until I went back home and he shut the door in my face. My mother came out and tried to welcome me home, and get me to stay, but I knew that my father had been right all along, and that it was me who was pathetic. So I got on a bus and went as far as I could until my money ran out, and here I am."

     "What do you mean, about your father being right?"

     He closed his eyes again, brought both hands up to the sides of his face, and said, "When I was in the Corps, I got sent to Iraq. I was pretty gung ** at first, and thought I was fightin' for freedom and the way of life that I wanted, but then it just seemed to get pointless. Day after day of cat-and-mouse with an enemy hidin' in plain sight and no real purpose other than bein' there and gettin' into firefights. Then one day I was on this mission clearin' some homes of insurgents. I was leadin' a squad goin' door-to-door and not havin' much trouble 'til we went to this one house and there's this woman screamin' and tryin' to get past us. A couple of my guys had to hold her down while the rest of my squad got her family to kneel down beside her. The woman kept on screamin' and we didn't have an interpreter, so I went up to her and tried to calm her down. I told her in as soothin' a voice I could that we weren't goin' to hurt anyone, we were just lookin' for bad guys, when I saw this blur out of the corner of my eye. The woman started screamin' louder, and I turned and yelled, 'Stop!!! Stop!!!' a couple of times, but it kept movin' fast and I just reacted . . . I didn't have any time to think . . . it just kept movin' . . . and I was yellin', 'Stop!!! Stop!!!' . . . but it wouldn't stop . . . it wouldn't stop . . . it just kept movin' . . . . . . and I reacted . . . I just reacted . . . . . . and then there was my muzzle flash and this red mist . . . . . . this red mist that just erupted . . . and kind of hung there . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and then the woman wasn't screamin' . . . and I wasn't yellin' . . . . . . . . . and there was just this little boy . . . . . . . . this little boy, lyin' on the ground . . . . . . with this mush where his face used to be . . . . . . . . . . . and it was quiet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . so quiet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . until I heard this sound like nothin' I ever heard before . . . this kind of moan . . . this deep, hollow, primeval moan that kind of rumbled at first . . . . . . . . and then it grew louder . . . and louder . . . and the pitch got higher and higher . . . . . . until it turned into this ferocious gut-wrenchin' shriek that filled my head and reached way down and ripped my insides out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and every day I try to put that boy back together in my mind . . . . . . I try to see his face . . . but I can't . . . . . . . . . . . . I can't see his face . . . . . . and I can't get that sound out of my head . . . . . . . . . . . . every single day . . . . . . . . . . . . and all I can see is my muzzle flash . . . and that mist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . that godawful red mist."

They hauled me off to jail and got an ambulance for the guy in the alley. I was booked for assault and battery, robbery, and a few assorted charges thrown in for good measure. It wasn't the first time I had been arrested, so I knew the cops weren't going to believe anything I had to say, especially if I used the word, "innocent." So I stewed in jail for a couple days, until just before my arraignment, when I got to meet the lawyer they had assigned to me. She looked capable enough, but I didn't think she had any time to look into my case, so I asked her if the cops had logged any of the money I supposedly stole into evidence. She asked me "Why?," so I told her it would make the cops look ***** if I actually stole some money and none of it got turned in. But then she said that the guy in the alley had told the cops it wasn't me, but some other guys that beat him up, and he refused to press charges against me anyway, so she could get my case dismissed.

     After I got released, I spent a few days tending to my needs and was lying on the floor next to my fridgette when my mind fuzzed slowly into focus. I was staring at something I couldn't quite make out when I realized it was my reflection on a tequila bottle sitting right next to my face. It was empty, so I pushed it away, and the roaring sound it made as it rolled across the floor felt like a jet plane was landing on my head. That got me up and I got some ice and put it in the sink, which I filled with cold water, and then with my aching head. I didn't feel anything at first, but all of a sudden I felt like I stuck my head in a light socket and it was being soaked and set on fire at the same time. My first reaction was to pull my head up, but I needed that icy water to stop the hurt in my skull, so I grabbed the counter real hard and forced my head back in the sink. My eyes opened wide and I kinda made a blubbering sound as I shook my head from side to side and bubbles flew out my mouth. Then I tried to come up for air, but my shoulder got snagged by the faucet and I started to swallow some water. That got me panicking a bit and I started bouncing around trying to find a way to breathe, until my knees buckled and then I kinda slid out of that sink and onto the floor.

     I coughed and ****** wind for a time, and then I just lay back, spread my arms and closed my eyes. It felt real soothing somehow, like all the fight and pain were draining away, and I just lay there, as if I was floating on a pool of warm Kentucky sunshine. And then I remembered the guy in the alley and how he let me go, both my throat and the police. My lawyer had learned a little bit about him and told me he was a corporal in the Marines, served three tours in Iraq, been awarded some medals, and his name was James Mitchell. She didn't know what he was doing in town or where he was from, but that he had been hurt pretty bad and would be in the hospital for a while. I was feeling a bit curious, and kinda in his debt somehow, so I got up to go see if he was still around.

It was still early, so I took another look around and, sure enough, there was some dug-in grime around where my rickety sofa-bed used to be. I had spent the last 24 hours scrubbing, scraping, wiping and polishing the tiny apartment that used to be my home and although I was exhausted, I couldn't sleep or rest or even sit still for two seconds at a time, so I sprayed that grimy spot with some 409 and scoured it over and over until I found clean.

     Most of my stuff I had already put out on the street to let whoever take what they wanted and then I tossed the leavings to a trash bin. Not much. Mostly personal items and this and that. Things I had survived on, and maybe buried me, these past few years. But I did keep a few things . . . a couple pictures, some old letters, and my son's baseball mitt. It was well-worn but in good shape, even though it was the only one he ever used. I would be traveling light, taking just a few extra clothes, razor and such, and the thickest parka I could fit into my duffel bag. Oh, and a new black suit that I had packed in a separate bag. Also, I would be traveling with a friend.

     I hadn't known him long, maybe a few weeks. When I first saw him he was lying in an alley next to the bar down the street. His face was all bruised, his eyes were swollen, and blood was oozing out his mouth and nose. He was still breathing, but I couldn't tell if he was conscious, so I yelled, "Hey Chief . . . you OK?" He didn't answer, so I looked up and down both ends of the alley, didn't see anyone, and started to check his pockets for anything that I could score. They were empty on one side, so I rolled him over to check the other side when his hand came flying up and grabbed me by the throat. He was squeezing so hard, I thought he was going to break my neck, but then all of a sudden he just let go. I would have been scared shitless but it happened so fast all I could do was gag. Then everything got all bright as a spotlight lit the alleyway and two cops came toward me with their guns pulled.

He found her on a bridge
crying tears into a river

and reached out
as she fell to hold her
in their flight

above her tears
across the sky

It's a lazy day in LA
where the sun
siestas in the trees

and the only ice
to be found
is in the margaritas
that we raise
to toast the clouds
that drift away
as the sky blushes

pacific blue

seven billion
each different
yet having something
to share

try different
if one is an err

You will find much happiness
in the New Year

They came
from the west
when the sea
was still a coastline
and the sabre tooth tiger
roamed the land alongside
the wooly mammoth

For millenia they arrived
even as the coastline
became a bridge
and then a stepping stone
and then the sea

They came to find
an unknown and distant
but beckoning and certain
patch of earth where
their lives would matter
and their destiny
would be determined
by their own hands

They found new ground
to build their homes
where they lived
within their means
and their needs
and flourished
alongside others
by understanding
that their own way of life
would be secured
by respecting others
and that war
is too high a price
for more

In time they came
from the east
and it is in this land that
those who sought a better life
traveled in opposite directions
to find their journey's end

They shared a common vision
fueled by purpose
and determination
to live in freedom guided
by their hearts and minds
unchained by tyranny
or intolerance
and it is in this land
that we will gain
what freedom brings

Even though
I left milk and cookies
by the fireplace

Santa left me a lump of coal

I was so angry and upset
until I realized
that if I hold it the right way
I can turn it

into a diamond

When it is my time
I will sail away

at dawn
into a new day

He put the moon in my hand
     long before I knew
          the measure of its weight

          It felt like almost nothing
     as if floating
above the reach
          of my fingers
    

               It had no special features
          to reward my wandering eyes
     as they continued on elsewhere

And there seemed to be no reason
     to keep it in my grasp
          so I soon returned it
               into my father's hand

                
                       But afterward I felt it
                resting in my palm
          growing heavy and then fading
       in phases without sequence
or boundaries of time

Barely perceptible
     like shadows pulling forward
          it guides me still

               Leading me past emptiness
          lifting me past hope
     rising highest in the darkest hours

I see its face again

Whenever someone
or scores of someones
get shot

other people scratch their heads
and wonder why

We don't have more
guns, guns, guns, guns,
guns, guns, guns, guns,
guns, guns, guns, guns,
.  .  .

She was named "Camelia"
when she was born
but we called her "Rose"
because of her thorns

not on her skin
but those within

And still we cherished
her petals even
as they fell

deep soft velvet
in our arms