He lay back down from personal disturbance
of otherwise pacific rest, nothing scholarly knowledge has
conceived could cure a nightmare, or a conscience.

Clerk in the worn store
walls breath stale transparent stories, dreams
merely another day in the old man’s shop
until it burns to ash and cinder
smoldering what was once youthful aspiration.


She is waiting, clutching a lackluster gem encased in fool’s gold.
So many nights alone with tears, now again
as the steel beast breaks it’s sleep and
lumbers forward on smooth copper glazed tracks
15 karats fall from car #7 with hardly a sound
or a second thought.


Plains people drink deep the strong whiskey.
Smoke curls from the edges of dark cracked lips
as gray stone eyes peer out on what was once freedom.
The setting sun warms the red brown Naugahyde skin.


Prince of the Dane, sweet protector of truth in a world of
falsehood, what truth did he find? Plato’s truth, Christ’s truth,
Freud’s truth only two choices for a fellow,
so Hamlet died as well


So many dead end alleyways,
calling all the cats from their garbage cradles,
slouching drunkards from their endless revels,
all victims of Fate’s angry fist in the eyes.
Clawing their way toward daylight
from sewers to sanctuary
Hades to haven
or just another...