on the way back
met every man and his dog,
but leaden skies persisted
and the hills, up above,
got lost in the fog.

with a halo of snow,
just tipping the brim,
gray-clouds-tumble
and fall at the knee,
the limping limb, of
the deer stood in front
of me.

eyes of forests-yet-to-be-
discovered stayed in focus
not getting lost, nor twitching
for the frost nor
the freezing droplets that
cease to progress down
fur and neck.

A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
From my lips broke a cry,
Such as anguish may wring,
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


By Wealth's coach besmeared
With dirt in a shower,
Insulted and jeered
By the minions of power,
Where — oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


Life struck me with fright —
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge's hard chain;
One must eat, — yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot —
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high —
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still — still comes that reply,
Chant poor little thing.

My body is not
a wonderland.

there is nothing
sultry about
A Cold.

'Come hither' with a
red nose?
Oh Baby...

Commentary on
Modern Music,
nearly halted by
an almost snot rocket...
Authority tempered
with a rasp.

"Did you know you could
DIE if you hold in a sneeze?"
9 year old anecdotal prophet's
looming outline, right up close to
my face.

messy  half-dreams under the
futile winter-hat Reality Shield in the
backseat of  Homeward bound
Economy Wheel Gathering.

**** Man Voice to
telemarketers.

No sir, that's Mrs. White.

Numb me with marijuana
Grown somewhere in Tijuana
Excite me with a line
Pretty soon I’ll be feelin’ fine
Money can buy me happiness

Meet me in the back of the bar
Smoke that musky Cuban cigar
Touch me with manicured hands
Glinting diamonds of wedding bands
Money can buy me happiness

Traded morals for skyscrapers
A Hampton house with too many acres
Smoothing down in a velvet gown
Baby don’t you see? I own this town.
Money can buy me happiness.

Sitting all alone
at a table meant for six
I think of molecules
I think of chemical bonds
I think of the vastness of space.
I feel every atom in my body
spread out to cover
the empty table
the empty chair
the stillness and emptiness
of the trembling air.
A dull and lifeless chatter
vibrates all around
pulls me into a runaway rocking
like an ocean made of sound.
Most are unaware of
the fragility of the Universe
most cannot feel the
cosmos pull apart.
I grow anxious as the seats stay empty;
despite all my thinking
all my spreading
I still seem to sit alone.

I'm currently tuned in;
into something I've been listening
out for and hearing in my sleep.
I've become accustomed to your
customs and your attitude(s).
The news and the new ideas
bounce off mine and your
skull(s); ricochet back down the throat.
Think of a voyage into the knowing
unknown. Be willing to find a new home.

Several million years have past,
since the cosmos dumped it's trash.
But the book said
that it didn't happen that way.

And as this minstrel looks around
at this "drunk on ancient dogma" town
wanting Heaven, all they do is pray.

Celtic faces black with coal,
patiently await the dole.
Smoke and cough and cough and smoke, to Wally World they do fly.

For there's a caustic cross upon their hill,
protected by a local still.
Or is it the other way around in the wettest county, that is dry.

Who is this vagabond I see,
he walks the streets in search of thee?
With the stench of cheap addiction in the air.

While rats guard a yellow stream,
Arthur's long forgotten dream.
He mumbles verses, but no one sees him there.

And down at Ruby's so many more
just can't seem to find the door.
They use to know the game, but have forgotten how to play.

Wild Bill you old crazy sot,
"The Seven" have, but you have not.
Maybe you can show us, show us all the way.

Dr. Stangename counts his jack,
prescribing hits of "hillbilly smack".
Let's pull a tooth and buy another day of cheap grace.

Watch high above the S.S.D.I.,
a once frozen war machine will fly.
While Arthur's dream crumbles into space.

I climbed The Pinnacle to find,
the fallen star had left behind
a bowl of cryptic confusion, guilty illusions in it's wake.

I told a lady with a PHD,
"Now woman in Afghanistan are free".
But she just sneered and said, "for heaven's sake!"

Listen you can hear the swords,
of the ancient feudal lords.
Clans of clans, left over ways of thinking.

Children, bearing children, beg.
While "The Seven" sit upon the keg.
Deeming them not wise enough for drinking.

It wasn't always this way.
Arthur almost had his hay day.
That's when the devil's broken promise beget a faithless town.

And in the years when King Volstead reigned,
some rode on the gravy train.
The ***** were in their court, and they sold his Crown.

I hope someday this rhyme is moot,
and we all get to share the loot.
And they let the ghost of "Ragtime Harney" play.

For it clearly isn't working here,
just like a party with no beer.
There's no reason for anyone to stay.

Up the road it's "a hundred wet",
and I'll see you there I bet.
You'll give them the prize, that you could have won.

And while you smoke and spit and chew,
power-ball and bingo too.
The lesser of the evils, like self righteous boll weevils,
fearing truth upheavals just like this one.

This is a hell of a way to get to Heaven,
livin' your life at the mercy of "The Seven".
Dying to get out. Dying, you stay in.

While "The Seven" get rich, by keeping you poor.
The keepers of the keys to the barrel house door.
And don't tell me that's no sin.
This is a hell of a way to get to Heaven,
a hell of a way to get in.