There's a lot more
to being sober
than staying sober.

The Reaper may or may not be our friend,
depends on how much pain needs be reduced.
In time each one of us will meet our end;
we live as if we've not been introduced.

My wife's family
is a pack of wolves.
One will be chosen,
and the others pile on,
tugging and tumbling
the lucky winner,
looking like they would tear
the chosen one
limb from limb.
At day's end
they huddle about
the battered cub,
licking its wounds
and nesting
warm and huddled.

My family was crocodilian,
cold-blooded and
waiting in preternatural
prehistoric patience
for a spot of blood
as the excuse
to pull the wounded one
beneath muddied waters
and devour their own.

rain and wind lashing
worn down to weary wonder
yet strangely at peace

Having shot up
(with two flavors of insulin)
before bed,
I've been instructed to snack.

So I drop fifteen pills
with an ounce
(of water)
and wait for the subtle wave
of unreality
to flow through me.

Never thought my Eskimos
would be four doctors
and a dialysis nurse.

Funny how insomnia
and discomfort will
dredge a new room
into a safe harbor

In spite of seeking,
struck dumb by immensity
of my ignorance.

Hanging a warning
sign on Tampa Bay's bullpen:
"Flammable Solids".

You sneered at me because you thought I'd lied
and stared at me through drunken eyes of pain,
then waved me off as I tried to explain.
You turned away, just shook your head and sighed,
still unconvinced that I had not a clue
where she had gone since I had left her here.
You drove away, your taillights disappeared
into the driving snow, the wind that blew.
The same snow broke your fall as you collapsed,
but couldn't keep your temple from the bruise
that showed up three days later as you lay
in state but not in peace. I think I snapped;
I spoke to you, 'twas Dylan's words I used:
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears I pray.

Begin with the meat.
Venison, if you seek authenticity;
if you were raised white,
ground beef will do.
The mirapoix can be purchased
if you no longer till
the back yard.
Potatoes and peas and corn
as well.  No matter
what the commercials say,
frozen tastes nothing like
fresh from the earth.
If Grandfather did not
milk the cow and churn the butter,
saute the vegetables and meat
in half a stick.
Flour was bought and traded for
for many generations;
just open the bag and add a quarter cup.
Beef stock is such a
pain in the *** to make.
Safe, sterile boxes
with tamper-proof caps
so much more convenient.
Let the soup simmer for
what seems to be a lifetime,
then open two cans
of hominy, drain them,
and add to the ***,
letting the smell
summon the memories
of whole families.
Adjust the seasoning,
sweetening the broth
with a tear or two
before serving.

A bear in Florida
finds no winter,
no months to sleep
in cozy cocoon.
He watches,
wakened and wary,
for sea changes
and weather shifts.
Many other predators
spend cooler seasons
in lassitude
despite the latitude,
neither hunting for truth
nor caring about
what surrounds them.
The bear raises his head,
wrinkles his nose
at the scent of danger,
the hint of threats
to and from
his environment.

With every passing day my body begs,
Consider that all drink, all food consumed
Will shorten breath, and weigh on swollen legs.
But thirst and palate are no less attuned
Though appetite has slaked as time goes by.
Instead of gluttony, I must select;
Notice what I eat and drink and why
To savor flavor to its best affect.

A poet learns their mindfulness of words
The same.  With small or no restraint at all,
They gorge themselves on overstuffed buffets,
Well-salted with their tears.  Yet, to be heard,
A simpler line cuts through the caterwaul
And quenches thirst and hunger on its way.

A drunken ould sot named O'Reilly
Drank a bottle he thought of most highly.
On his way to the well,
He stumbled and fell,
And was hoist upon his own shilleilly.

Enjoying my lair;
never knew I'm so ******
territorial.

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

The silence of solitude
sings to me at night;
soul-satisfying
words whispered
for my ears only
while the house sleeps.
I draw from the well
of my self, and savor
each drop thirstily.
The starving beast within
gnaws at every fresh
crust of aloneness,
melted butter soothing
scalded hands,
until my rumbling gut
is sated, and is at peace
with itself and the world.

if my words find no
melodious note
without accompaniment
then they are no poem

if they drop the chalice
meant to hold the last drop
of beautiful
then they are no poem

if they cannot feather in
the edges of madness
with strokes of reason
then they are no poem

if they gush unrestrained
and i cannot direct their flow
so they merely flood one's mind
then they are no poem

if they cannot pass
the judgement of their maker,
the Bosporus of his craft,
then they are no poem.

The source of words
is the very source
of human thought.

If we are to under-
stand one another,
we must find the source
of our words.

The sources of
our streams of consciousness
are as varied as nature;
from the highest pinnacles
to the bowels of the earth.
The nature of the sources
matters little.
The highest may be polluted;
the purest flow may come
from the deepest spring.

Recognizing our own source
is essential
when our streams merge.
Our thoughts commingle,
and still remain our own.
In the foaming tumble
over the boulders
of daily living,
it is well to remember
our innermost selves,
like the river,
need the aeration
of an outlet and a
                                few
                            ­           deep
                                                breaths.

On­ce we have come
to our under-
standing,
we need not remain
below those we now
stand under.

(the beauty of words
is the very beauty
of human thought)

Solemn silence singing
joyful dirge in parade
for bemused muse.

To: Career politicians and insiders
From: The great unwashed rabble beneath your feet

Over the next few years, and into the foreseeable future,
Your past and present performance
Will be scrupulously reviewed
With an eye toward
Eliminating hangers-on and dead weight.
No cow is sacred
When so many are starving.
The heiress apparent to the retiring CEO
has been shown the door;
the head of sales now the head of state.
There will be regular meetings
With the new HR director.
Those of you who've been with us
For a while will know him well.
His name is Howard Beale.

What truths I know
are neither quiet
nor clear.
I listen to
the dull and ignorant
when I too
tell my story.
Vain and bitter, yes;
for I have
a lifetime of
comparisons.
Late in life
my body calls me
to wholesome discipline
and gentility.
The universe unfolds
with and without
the full consent
of this particular child.
Peace with Spirit
will keep peace
with my soul.
In spite of
and because of
my best efforts...
it is still
a beautiful world.
I can choose
to be cheerful
and careful.
Strive to be
human;
happiness follows.

Having been a stray myself

I seem to attract them.

would you remember
if my hand traveled, nestled
down where we'd made love?

She does not ask for much;
a piece of paper,
a few markers,
time, and a mind at peace.
Her patience is maddening.
Dot by dot,
fantasies form,
sprung from her forehead
fully grown and armed
with the colors she imagines.
Her gray eyes clouded
with concentration,
for every jab of her hand
must strike true,
a felt-tip Seurat.
Her life a study in pointillism, too;
each day filling in
an outline, dark and light
commingled, colored by
those who come and go,
the users and losers,
the bruisers and the healers.
Self-portraits abound;
the smiling face and glowing eyes
she will show the world
painted over the pain
she has known
from loss of blood
and faithless friends.

A word to the wise:
Though her unicorns and pegasi
are strikingly beautiful,

her demons can be quite real.

We who live on the fringes
of the working-class
know her all too well.
A tulip of a child,
precociously blossoming
at eleven or twelve,
cute and acutely aware.
Never knowing her father,
her mother changing
boyfriends like fashion,
new each season.
Little girl's mind flush
with women's hormones,
she wraps herself around
the first small male kindness;
a good warm hug what she needs,
but has learned but one way
to express love.

Naked truth is the
last resort of a best friend
or a patriot.

How to find the words
for a feeling you've never had
and have always missed?

a crooked ugly man walked up
and said "all hope is spent
i'll build a wall and save you all
and be your president

believe me, i can cure all ills
and make all merkins proud
if you'll just take this oil of snake
i sell to every crowd

for any lie becomes the truth
if you but scream it thrice
so plant the seed then others bleed
and you don't pay the price

come spend your vote to buy my line
of prejudice and hate
ignore the churl of all the world
we'll make our nation great"

a machinating woman comes
the way her husband went
"i've done no crime i'm next in line
to be your president

you see how he goes off the rails
and nothing said is true
i can't shoot straight, i fabricate
but never lie to you

lost last time when set to win
this time did what i can
and worked my scut to undercut
an inconvenient man

we're dealing from the bottom, folks
the country's gone to ***
i may not be the best there is
but i'm the best you've got"

so laugh about it, shout about it,
when you've got to choose
your **** is hoist on Hobson's choice
the poison or the noose

better coat the truth
with humor as a jester
than to be sincere,
thoughtful, civil, generous...
and be vilified for it

The power of music
and friendship
heals dead connections;
a well-meaning member
of a jam session
offers me a guitar.
I politely decline,
embarrassed by my disability,
and they shrug.  Your choice.
The familiar curves
beneath my arm
like a woman
from my past,
my amnesiac left hand
reaches for the
muscle memory
of fifty years' practice.
After an agonizing minute,
the G chord miraculously plays,
as I played it at five,
the three big fingers alone
strong enough to hold it.
The switch to C impossible;
so I play a variation.
Doesn't sound bad with the group.
My God, I might play a D7
by the next time it comes around
in the song.
The gang is playing old standards,
Ohio State music;
three chords and a cloud of dust,
which suits my present skill(?) well.
I almost cried when a few tunes later,
we sang A Horse With No Name
to my accompaniment.

Beethoven was deaf, yet heard the Ode To Joy.
Hawking is paralyzed, and travels the universe.
I have three good fingers,
and no good excuses.

We're talking
put up a hand
to stop a hurricane
futile here,
folks.
Two days past trying
while listening
to Hermine's tails
lashing at the windows,
I reach deep
into a well of emptiness
for a lost bucket
of words
filled with dusted
dried feelings,
the rope frayed
to snapping.
A thirst to heal
will lead me to drill
elsewhere,
thirsting for the tears
commingling with rain,
the tears that burst
from a stone-crag heart
in artesian splendor.

A life lived
as an oxymoron:
sociopath
with a conscience.

Comes a time
when the mathematics
of the years
becomes more about
- than +,
÷ rather than x.

When wisdom gained
< vitality lost,
and dis-ease > health.

A good night's sleep
and some energy ≈
happiness.

Living is
tangential
to survival,
and not
necessarily
congruent.

We gaze
upon the unseen,
give voice
to the
inexplicable.

(n) A phenomenon
whereby the day-to-day
necessities of life
call for action and thought,
not feeling,
and the emotion
catches up suddenly
when the actions stop.

"Is that all there is?"
The eternal question answered:
"Is that all you've found?"

Fingerprints of comfort
cover the knife which
bears passion's blood.

When the future
holds no promise,
the past will ******.

Come to me with tears, my eyes have cried.
Laugh until you hurt, I've been that manic.
Deceive me if you can, I know the lies
we tell ourselves in fear. I will not panic.
Pound my chest in anger, feel my strength;
know I know your pain, yet do not feel it.
Tell me of your breaking heart at length;
words absorbed and heard the salve to heal it.
We together know we can survive;
after all, we'd chosen different roads and
gone our separate ways just to arrive
in time to hold up one another's loads.
You think you weigh me down, yet do not see
my burden's lighter when you lean on me.

Your ship, painted on the glass
of a five-by-seven picture frame
sails above my desk.
A study in blues, my favorite
as you well knew,
done by a man who knew
the blues too well.
The tall-master in full sail,
catching the reach
which exceeds my grasp.
The freedom of a craft
doing what it was made to do;
sailing in full faith
toward an unseen horizon
just as you were
when you came to me
with your divorce
and your truth.
I knew.  Your friends all knew.
But you loved children
and family so much
that for years
you could only paint the truth
to yourself
which ended up
in a closet(yes, too ironic).
When the man came out,
so did the paintings.
I look up every day
and know the world
is a better place for it.

The day is sated,
night's stomach thunder-rumbles
in satisfaction.

I have been taught
by those much wiser
and more experienced
that if I am disturbed,
I have in some way
caused the disturbance.
Whether by ignorance
or inaction,
intent or mistake.
I am responsible
for the actions
I take; no one
can "make me"
do or feel anything.

Practice does not make perfect;
practice makes permanent.
Be ****** careful, then,
what you practice.

i dream of you most perfect girl
intelligent and patient eyes
with legs caressable as clay
world-weary and naive in turns
sharp of tongue yet never lies
nor turns a starving heart away

most perfect girl in dreams you'd be
so strong and joyful to submit
your nature suits duality
enjoys your wicked, smiles your wit

one whose soul outshines the sun
and darker than obsidian
i pray to be when i am done
one most unworthy perfect man

Tell me what is most real to you today;
what makes your heart beat faster, moves your soul.
Put what completes your world out on display.

Your triumphs and your struggles on your Way,
or virtues in another to extol.
Tell me what is most real to you today.

Your cleverness, your wit come out to play
or cleansing tears, for life will take its toll.
Put what completes your life out on display.

Please, kindly rid your writings of cliche
for simple recitation leaves me cold.
Tell me what is most real to you today.

I'm eager to hear what you have to say,
so whisper in italics, shout in bold;
put what completes your world out on display.

And never let your muse become dismayed
by words from uninspired online trolls.
Tell me what is most real to you today;
put what completes your world out on display.

I always give that
fickle ***** Life one more chance,
for I love her so.

I saw my future at the Dollar Town
today.  She shuffled, bent, a Sisyphus
who rolled her cart uphill on level ground,
resisting rollback grinding her to dust.
Perhaps fifteen or twenty years beyond
my age, or pushing ninety.  Hard for me
to tell; she labored so, with eyes despon-
ent, weight upon her arms, each step a plea.
I hobbled past her, grateful for a cart
nearby to hold me up.  The air-conditioned
blast a respite from the sweltered heat;
I panted softly, let my pounding heart
subside, inhaled a soothing breath, and sent
a prayer she'd make it home, get off her feet.

Poets do not
make a living;
they make a life.

She pulls out a box of CD's;
says name your poison.
Cobalt-60 will do.

Bare Naked Ladies will be
the band du jour.
I lie on the slab
in the radiation lab...
yes i'm...lying in bed...
like brian wilson diiiid....

I'm wearing my spandex jacket
(where's Donald Fagan
when you need him?).

As LeAnn wraps the
velcro-ed elastic band
around me to bind my arms,
I mention that I miss
the good old days
of canvas
and leather straps.
i'm so sane
it's driving me crazy....

Time stops

I'm motionless

engage mind wander

it's so dangerous
you have to sign a waiver...
embossed positive
and negative
on the massive metal arm
the pluses and minuses
of shooting a carcinogen
at a spot of death
to save my life
*if there's someone you can live without...
then do so....

Within each shattered shadowed soul
a blinding binding light may grow
when tribulation takes its toll
in ways naught but the dying know.
We live eternity each day
aware of what most will ignore,
that in the end we have no say
when ends life's narrow corridor.
An omnipresent spirit's real,
begging that we keep in mind
the gratitude for wounds that heal,
and lead us down our selves to find
what words we whistle in the dark
to walk through fears which leave their mark.