My first real job
was trying to glue
blown up teenagers
back together.
I was twenty, old.
I held them in my arms
and told them lies
while they cried and died.
Told them it was ok,
they were fine, going home.
Their spirits lodged in
the secret chambers
of my broken heart.
I can never forget.
Their faces stick
in in my brain
like photos in a wallet.
I will never forgive
those who sent us to die
and then treated us
like mad, pariah dogs
if we made it back.
But we knew what we knew.
He today who sheds
his blood with me
shall be my brother.
Brothers in arms.
Brothers forever.

For a poet
they are
necessary angels.

Poems do not
leap complete
from the head
like Zeus'
Children.

They are built
like cathedrals,
apprentice
and master,
practicing craft,
keen-eyed
over centuries.

Mine are the poets
I have read,
studied, dissected
and read again
and again
over 40 years.

Gary Snyder,
Richard Brautigan,
Leonard Cohen,
Wendell Berry,
Jim Harrison
and far too many more,
but just as important,
to name.

Eventually,
from their voices
came my voice.

Make your own list,
invite them over.
They will never tire
of teaching you.

If you are diligent
and listen closely,
you will learn
the craft
and sing in the voice
you belong to.

Hard work, learning,
practice and devotion:

all it takes to be a poet.
   ~mce

When
neither
of us
can tell
where
we end
and the
other
begins
then
we are
both
exactly
there.
  - mce

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

~ for FK

He fell asleep a defunct and uncertain mortal,
but in that night of wavering visions
he dreamed of crocodiles and lilacs
each blossoming according to its own nature.
That made a sort of sense.
Telephones rang and creditors questioned.
Fishermen returned from the sea with boats full of water
which they easily traded for vast quantities of oxygen.
The crocodiles were fragrant and the lilacs smiled.
That, too, made a sort of sense.
One melancholy action flung itself upon the stars
and vanished from the satisfied earth.
He loved God and Satan simultaneously
and in their delight they reopened the Garden
feeling once more the necessity of affection
and directed him to eat his fill.
Who can argue with such divine logic?
All his ex-lovers sent telegrams expressing regret.
The gold he never had swelled his coffers.
He decided this dream was too lovely to end.
And yet, how to make sense of this gloaming cornucopia?
The answer struck him obvious as an earthquake:
forget the prisons of words; take new orders;
laugh with the crocodiles; dance with the lilacs;
become a man of action; imbibe Ambrosia for breakfast;
devour Manna  for lunch; **** astonishing flowers.
This makes perfect sense.

  - mce

Weave your
nightgown
out of the
darkness.
Modesty
imparts to
your nakedness
willowy grace.
I thirst for
clarity.
I want
to drown in
the white bones
beneath it.

  ~mce

Some evenings,
the voice
you don't hear
cries out
in your heart.
- mce

Pull down thy vanity.*

Woe be unto you. Sighing children. Left behind.
Make the best of it. Stand by your Brand. Freelance.
Start-ups of futility. Write content for six blogs.
Wake up and smell the copy. Serve drinks.
In three bars. Kludge together the rent. Part-time.
Hustle. Hurry. Make of virtue of activity. Be productive.
Convince yourself busyness is productive. Deliver.
Productivity as Divine. Ten steps to improve.
Seven ways to better. Fifteen hacks to boost.
Means of production stolen long before you.
You are cormorants with rings tight on your necks.
The truth shall make you work. Harder and longer.
Believe you are on your way. You are. To getting old.
Old and broke and lonely. To wondering what went wrong.
Your children will disdain you and the world you made.
Same story told with tattoos and piercings. Good luck.

I want to make poetry
from poverty.
I eschew women.
I buy nothing.
I eat little.
I own less.
I have neither
TV nor cellphone.
This is not asceticism.
I just want
to know the bones
of life before
I become
the bones of death.
  ~mce

David Foster Wallace told a tale of three fish. A large old fish and two young fish were swimming toward each other. When they met, the old fish said to the young fish, "How's the water. They swam on. Finally one little fish said to the other, "What's water?"

This is as important a parable as Jesus ever uttered.

While none of the fish can escape the water, the crucial thing is to be aware of it. We can't escape the water of usury founded capitalist consumerism, but we can become aware of it and change how we swim.

Minimalism is a way of saying ******* to the water. It is a way of saying, I may have to swim here, but I will consciously choose how I swim. That's huge.

A minimalist says I will live on as little as possible. I will participate in proletarianized labour as little as possible. He says to the usurers, I will not feed you through debt. He chooses to live (well) on the cast-offs of consumer society. He says I will not watch your lies on TV. I will avoid the State as much as I can. I will fly (as much as still possible) under the radar. I will live my life. I will live my truths. I will be me.

This cannot be done perfectly. It can be done in many ways and to many degrees. The trick is to realize how it suits you and then do it. Learn to swim as you wish. Be your own fish.

Gaze into the mirrored face
of the aging drunk man.
See the blurred innocence of
the departed boy. There are
no other worlds to conquer.
This one holds danger enough.
War, women and whiskey
dance their destruction.
We only get the face we earn.
A man becomes what
a man does, but sometimes
that can’t be helped.
Eternally recurring Mulligan,
of boundless hope.
The turning Dharma wheel.
Perhaps a thousand more
lives must be lived
to undo this doing, to
break the bonds of Karma,
to finally sink into
the warm, welcoming
arms of peace.
A weary trek but worthy.

Living alone,
I am randomly
eccentric.

It's not a quirk,
if no one sees.

Often at odd hours,
day or night,
I sneak a glance
at my mirror
hoping
to be surprised
by a young
and happy
reflection.

Never happens.

   mce

As easy as
accidentally
falling off
a log into
a vat
of ****.

As a poet,
you might
drown.

Watch
your step!
   - mce

Many folks
wouldn't read
a poem
unless you put
a gun
to their heads.

I am that gun;
these words
are my bullets;
exactly
those people,
my target
of choice.
  - mce

All day,
everyday,
people try
desperately
to tell us
who they are
and we
ignore them
because
we want them
to be someone
else.

~ mce

After a certain age,
morning becomes a relative term.

Three, four or six,
you wake up and get up.

Battle, marriage, divorce,
kids, lovers, fear:
sleep becomes a dream collage
projected in your weary skull.

The past lurks at night.

What remains begins again
when you awaken.

The two blend like a smoothie,
both bitter and sweet.

Lift the glass and drink it down.

It tastes like the only future
you have left, like the first
drink you ever took, like
the first time you ever kissed,
like another shot at awe.

It supplies the reasonless reason
that keeps you
plodding onward into the unknown.

The only place you can live

*now.

We are not
unlike serpents:
at intervals
we must shed
our skins and
enter new lives.

Are you uncomfortable
in the comfort
you have created?
Do you itch for no reason
you can think of?
Do you long
for the scent
of flowers you
have never seen?
Do desire flesh
you have not met?

Lives wear out.

Someone new
longs to be born.

It may be time
to molt and bolt.

New lives,
new roads.

The Dharma
wheel spins
trailing wonders.

Live or die,
we must follow.

  ~mce

Wallace Stevens
once wrote
that money
is a kind of poetry;
he did not say
that it is good poetry.
- mce

Time does not erase
nor can it heal,
it dulls, like whiskey,
the edge of real
sins and griefs,
but they remain,
living souvenirs
of our human pain.
Try as we must
to drive away
the debts of hurt
and not to pay
any attention
to the lingering woe
of scars incurred
in the long ago,
the best we can do,
with a brave face,
is bind them tight
in a secret place,
in a shabby box
that sits apart,
in the dusty attic
of our mortal heart.
  - mce

If I saw you
naked and dancing
in the pale moonlight,
your body
perfect in my mind,
your grace a holiness
of abandon,
a Muse of lust
and purity,
I would still be
jealous of Luna's eyes.

  ~mce

Lying is
tedious
and
difficult,
which
is why
I prefer
to  invent
the truth.
  - mce

You've read many books,
think your homework done,
consider yourself
well-informed.

And then you stand
on the hillock
at Wounded Knee
or the spot
at Fort Robinson
where Crazy Horse
was murdered
or the ravine
at Sand Creek

and you smell blood,
leather, horses, sweat, earth

smoldering around you

and suddenly you know
what you didn't know:

history is more than words.

  ~mce

Live too long and friends will become ghosts.
Corpses will fill your address book.
The ghosts show up in the crushing morning silence
and depart into your dreams after the twilight.
They never seem to have much to say.
I often ask them questions. What's it like being dead?
Is it cold? Are there animals. Is there anything to read?
Should I join you or hang out on earth a while yet?
The answers, when there are any, are not satisfactory.
And so I stick to earth for another bruising day.
In the Shack nothing happens and that is more than enough.
It is hard to fall asleep and truly hell to wake up.
I often feel like a road killed skunk that just had electroshock
or a successful suicide who just ****** a shotgun to ******.
Between dawn and twilight exists a pointless purgatory.
Still, heaven remains a vague possibility.
But that is what is meant by life. I'm off to participate.

  ~mce

Mornings are the worst,
dissolution and despair,
the terror of karma
in the pallid, dim air.
Witches of memory
shriek and taunt:
you'll never be free.
The past pukes demons
that chant and moan:
you belong to me.
Oh Muse of light,
protect me from sadness;
Oh Muse of light,
shield me from madness.
Keep my soul safe
for just one more day;
hold my heart in your hands,
keep the past at bay.
  - mce

Even after ten years
of living alone
the coal mine depth
of the morning silence
stuns me.
Time was, it could be
pierced by Mozart,
birdsong, poetry.
Now it has become
an impenetrable,
invisible wall
that I strain at
but cannot
hear through.
I accept that it
is permanent.
I know that when
the silence ends,
I will too.

You take my heart
I'll take yours

carefully gently
with skilled fingers

we will merge them
into one Heart

that beats so loudly
and with such wild joy

the very angels
will tremble above

stunned and amazed

by the sound of so much

mortal beauty

  ~mce

Nothing in the world is softer
or weaker than water.*

Water is soft,
stones are hard.
Which would
you rather be?

When boulders
are worn beyond pebbles
only water remains whole.

Fill a bowl with water
until it brims and overflows
dripping on what's below.

Soft drops rain down.

Each drop of rain,
inexorably falling,
wears away the boulder
until only pebbles remain.

Each teardrop of time,
inevitably passing,
wears our lives away
until only memories remain.

The pebbles of life
begin as boulders
worn by time and tears
to their own perfection.

Paradox of life:
we must be worn away
to become whole.

When boulders
are worn to pebbles,
and pebbles to dust,
only water remains.

Time and teardrops
fill a pond
ruled by stillness.

Be still.

Know that enough's
enough to know;
that to live
until you die
is long enough.

Be the teardrops
not the boulder.

It begins with
nervous laughter,
creaking springs,
builds to
loud supplications
to Jesus and God,
ends in final
melting moans.

Funny how little
the notes vary;
more classical
than baroque;
more advertising
jingle than
hallelujah.

The simple sounds
of who we are,
where we come from,
what we do
to each other

played on mortal organs
by ardent amateurs,
overheard through
thin motel walls.

   - mce

He's turned his back upon the fire,
he's turned his face away;
he's broke, he's cold and far from home;
he knows he's lost the way.
His children fled from his disease;
His wife's forgot his name;
He's traveled far but can't remove
the burden of his shame.
He wishes that he knew a way
to make his wrongs all right,
to bring the hearts of those he loved
back to his lonely night.
But now his path is solitude,
the way leads on alone;
the things he did, the pains he caused,
are only his to own.
There are some wounds that can't be healed,
some words he can't unsay;
the things he did that led him to
the mourning of this day.
So he will wake and think and write
of all he had that's lost;
the rage he knew, the words he hurled,
and just how much that cost.
He's turned his back upon the fire,
he's turned his face away;
he's broke, he's cold and far from home,
he knows he's lost the way.
  - mce

If you
can't make
your life
larger than
your grief,
you
will never
be alive
again.
-mce

Most mornings
I wake up satisfied
with the life I have.
My bowl may be empty,
but it is my bowl,
my choice. Still,
if a wayward Muse,
say one with
a diamond in her nose
and a chip
on her shoulder,
were to pass by
and choose to dally
for a while,
I could move up
from satisfaction
to contentment
with a smile.

  ~mce

Poised on the knife's
edge between old and
too old. It is easy to
count up my misses.

I know now I'll
never get a PhD,
win a Nobel Prize,
discover a
Quantum particle
or find True Love.

It's just too late.

I am broke, old,
not very handsome
and slouching
towards inevitable
decay.

           No matter.

I have always been
better at life on paper
than living in the
world of phenomena.

Never keep score
on your life.

Don't mean nothing:

what counts is
not simply winning,
but learning the game,
loving the game,
playing for keeps,

and dying like
the man or woman
you are proud to be.

  ~mce

The twin pockets of love and money.
You wake up and there they are:
one far away and perhaps impossible,
the other merely nonexistent and empty.
You dreamt of an old friend cut in half
by an unlucky burst of machine gun fire.
You wake up angry, lethal and mean.
You want to strangle the world
or whoever you happen to meet first.
Unless you wish jail, ruin, or the chair
this is a good time to simply disappear.
You need to hide away from the world
until your rage subsides and calm returns.
Like Grendel, you must slink back into your den
and let the blood-lust dissipate.
If you don't, someone is going to die.
And it will probably be me.

1.  If the enemy is in range, so are you.

2.  Incoming fire has the right of way.

3.  Don't look conspicuous, it draws fire.

4.  There is always a way.

5.  The easy way is always mined.

6.  Try to look unimportant, they may be low on ammo.

7.  Professionals are predictable, it's the amateurs that are
    dangerous.

8.  The enemy invariably attacks on two occasions:

       a. When you're ready for them.
       b. When you're not ready for them.

9.  Teamwork is essential, it gives them someone else to shoot at.

10. If you can't remember, the claymore is pointed at you.

11. The enemy diversion you have been ignoring will be the main
    attack.

12. A "******* chest wound" is natures way of telling you to slow
    down.

13. If your attack is going well, you have walked into an ambush.

14. Never draw fire, it irritates everyone around you.

15. Anything you do can get you shot, including nothing.

16. Make it tough enough for the enemy to get in and you won't be
    able to get out.

17. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.

18. If you are short of everything but the enemy, you are in a
    combat zone.

19. When you have secured an area, don't forget to tell the enemy.

20. Never forget that your weapon is made by the lowest bidder.  

21. Friendly Fire Isn't.

And Mike's Three Corollaries:

1, Keep your head down.

2. Never pick up anything off the ground.

3. Never, ever, trust the locals, especially children.



Compiled by mce

In the woods walking,
early morning cool,
one eye on the ground
for snakes otherwise
empty-headed not looking
for anything;

over a rise and down,
a rotten chestnut stump
probably 100 years old
and at its roots
twenty-three Morels.

Instant hunger:
the smell of frying
butter, salt and
tender mushrooms.

I lust for them.

Take off my shirt
to carry them home.

Real desire often
takes us by surprise;
pure delight
of the unsought.

  ~mce

You'll depart when you feel like it:
goddesses do not adhere to timetables.
Your body is so lovely
it scares away sharks.
Why should it fear time?
Your grace comes from deep caverns.
The tocks of clocks mean nothing more
to you than the creaking on weary stairs.
You leave no footprints as you glide the beach.
Millennia would not allow
half enough moments to describe
the tiny eternity
of your arms around me.
You arrived in a dream and
you'll depart when you feel like it.

   - mce

I found a note
from the Muse
this morning.

It read:

I've gone to Aruba
to work on my tan;
you're on your own,
do the best you can.

Capricious *****.

She knows
I'll wait for her;
I always do.

How very like
a woman;
so certain
of her charms.

But I don't have
to like it.

When she returns,
I'll sulk a bit.

It stings to be so
taken for granted,
even by a goddess.
  - mce

I want to be
the Troubador
of your Heart;
allowed to roam
freely within it,
singing you songs
that no one else
can hear.
  ~mce

Cold without
and cold within.
I light huge fires
in my stove,
but the embers
of whole forests
do not warm;
I pour the output
of entire distilleries
down my throat,
but the spark
does not catch.
I think
some essential
kindling
is missing.
Perhaps that
is You.
- mce

Thanks for the title, Boss.*

When I was a kid
my hometown
basked in that
(uncertain) period
of peace and
prosperity between
Korea and Vietnam.

It bustled
with busyness
and it seemed like
everyone knew
everyone and there
was always more.

Even the poor
felt included.

Half a century later,
peace has fled
for good and
prosperity too,
leaving only
vacant storefronts
and neighbors
who do not know
each other.

Perhaps this
was inevitable;
perhaps it is
progress.

But there are
moments when
it feels like
a lifetime is
just too much
to witness,
just too long
to live.

Nobody loves
a corpse.

~mce

My love
goes everywhere
in sandals
wearing abalone
at her throat.
She calls herself
a commoner,
but I know
she is a goddess
from an older,
fiercer
order of things,
a warrior woman
struggling
to be free.
When she laughs
the birds listen.
When she touches me,
my heartbeat slows.
She says what she means
and knows what she knows.
Unafraid of who she is,
she takes herself
wherever she goes.
My love in sandals,
walking.

   ~mce

~ BY THEODORE ROETHKE
The whiskey on your breath  
Could make a small boy dizzy;  
But I hung on like death:  
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans  
Slid from the kitchen shelf;  
My mother’s countenance  
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist  
Was battered on one knuckle;  
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head  
With a palm caked hard by dirt,  
Then waltzed me off to bed  
Still clinging to your shirt.

aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what

is more did tell you just

what everybody was fighting

for,

my sister

isabel created hundreds

(and

hundreds)of socks not to

mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that

i would die etcetera

bravely of course my father used

to become hoarse talking about how it was

a privilege and if only he

could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly

in the deep mud et
cetera

(dreaming,

et

  cetera, of

Your smile

eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

Each time
he removed
her clothes,
she imagined
herself
a different
woman,
only
more so.
  -  mce

The air is numinous.
The sun shines through branches
Illuminating everything
and every bird expresses
a lascivious symphony.
The light pierces your hair and
You shake it loose, set fire to air.
Aromas of our bodies,
sweat, sweet and ******,
rise in olfactory splendor.
I cannot remember
a time before summer when
your nakedness was not all
that made my world
everything magical and endearing.

I lie down to take a nap
with only a blanket, a cat,
and the image of your perfect eyes.

Plenty enough to keep me warm.

The only thing missing is you.
  ~mce

when i wear
a suit
i look like
exactly
the kind
of old man
who would
wear a suit,
the kind
of old man
i almost
was
but never
became.

   ~mce

On Tuesday I drove near
my ex-wife's house
for the first time
in almost three years.
At just that moment,
in just that place,
my car's clutch blew up.
Curse or coincidence?
Spooky to think about.
Hard to say.
- mce

If you say
the noun
Nebraska
to any
easterner
their eyes
will glaze
like doughnuts.

But if you
go there
and experience
the exquisite
loneliness
of the Niobrara,
the empty
intensity of
the Sand Hills,
the primordial cry
of the Cranes
and more stars
than you could
imagine one sky
could ever hold,
it will fill
your soul
to bursting

and you will
never again
belong wholly
to your thin
strip of coast.

  ~mce

Fear and faith
rule our lives.

Find a way
to reconcile
them
and life
becomes
a path to joy.

Real work,
worth doing.
- mce