Horsey, horsey, don't you stop,
Make your feet go clippetty-clop
And make your tail go swish
And your wheels go 'round-
Giddyup! We're homeward bound!

I like to travel through the country,
I like to travel through the town.
I like to hear old Dobbin's clippetty-clop,
I like to see the wheels go 'round.

A mother young in life will give
her babe the breast until the weaning time.
Then cries and supplications fill her ears-
much frustration, a hearty chorus of tears.
Where has my milky comfort fled,
says the babe, sulking in sorrow's bed.

I heard tell once of another Babe,
soothed at His Mother's breast, quiet and serene,
and destined for a greater sphere than this.
When He was weaned, did He cry
and shake His tiny fist, and rue the day?
Or did He know of what the future held,
that He would nurse at the ***** of his Father,
and hang from Redemption's blessed Tree?

The shepherd will take care of us-
Baa baa baa.
You mustn't think the less of us-
Baa baa baa.

We're really not so bad, you know-
Baa baa baa.
We shouldn't be so sad, you know-
Baa baa baa.

You needn't raise a fuss for us-
Baa baa baa.
They only want the best for us-
Baa baa baa.

We all must give the shepherd a chance-
Baa baa baa.
He plays the tune, and we all dance-
Baa baa baa.

We're so afraid of the wolves at the door-
Baa baa baa.
With names we can't pronounce anymore-
Baa baa baa.

Don't let the bad ones get to us-
Baa baa baa.
The shepherd is the best for us-
Baa baa baa.

upon this night
the moon shines full upon the face
that sings to me

I went into the kitchen the other day.
The salt and pepper shakers
were quarreling on the table.
The dish and the bowl
made a ruckus in the cupboard.
The bacon and the eggs
wrestled madly in the pan.
The toast leaped from the toaster,
crying, "You've burnt me again!"
I should have stayed in bed that day,
for no good will come from a breakfast of chaos.

Get down from there, my old man said,
before you hurt yourself.
Me and Little Sis were playing
in the hayloft where all the bales
were piled up high- so high

they liked to touch the barn roof.
I always liked to play
in the fortress the bales made,
like the castles and forts
in the picture book on Grandma's shelf

in the parlor. Pa and Grandpa
worked all day getting in the hay,
and when the day was done
they would sit in the parlor
and take turns drinking from the jug

on the shelf. After a while they would
start singing and cracking jokes
and acting kind of foolish,
and Grandma would holler at them
and tell them to act their age,

and when they got all tuckered out
Grandma would put the cork back in
the jug and put it back on the shelf.
One time I was out playing in the barn,
and I heard voices in the hayloft,

sort of a rustling sound, and now and then
a giggle, and I looked and saw
Big Sis and the farmhand playing
in the hay, and they saw me and
yelled at me, telling me to go away

and leave them alone. Later on
I saw where Big Sis was getting kind of fat
in the belly, and I said something
about it, and Big Sis got all mad
and threw her milk cup at me.

Pa said something like that's what happens
when girls make hay on their own,
and Grandma said that ain't
the right kind of hay to make,
and Big Sis got kind of red in the face.

I only ever saw Pa and Grandpa
make the hay, and when I asked them
what it all meant, they only chuckled,
and told me to go out and play.
I guess maybe I'll figure it out someday.

left foot                                                 right foot
toes flex                                                ankles whisper
such tendons                                         soothing calves
little hollows                                          backs of knees
firming hams                                          singing strings
so maximus                                           her gluteus
spine serpentine                                     how undulous
soft shoulders                                        rounded corners
hands caress                                         twin handrails
her flight arrests                                    a backward glance
what are you                                        staring at
only you                                               ascending love

the old man naps
sudden snore erupts
startled child cries out

Say there, you old fool,
what have you been up to?
Day and night you chase the moon
till daylight comes again. Why?
Her glow is much the lesser light
than yours. Don't you know
her sheen is you reflected?
Yet you persist, while other
stellar bodies stay neglected.
Best not to fuss with Venus-
her Mars is much too jealous.
Mercury is much too hot, thanks to you,
and Earth is way too quarrelsome.
Saturn would run rings around you,
and as for Jupiter? I know
of no planet stupider. Neptune
is altogether frosty, and Uranus
is simply out of the question,
in this or any other dimension.
And Pluto hardly seems a proper
planet anymore- not in this galaxy,
that's for sure. No, old Sol,
you'd best retain your sorry lunar love-
as the moon evades your grasp
and flirts with stars above.

O
elves
tanenbaum
tree top angels
babes in mangers
toy soldiers marching
nut crackers cracking
putting elves on shelves
those eggnog swilling elves
all the pretty ribbons and bows
rudolph blows his ****** red nose
where did the wise men put the gifts
drunken daddy passed out in a snowdrift
why are the **** lights always so tangled up
twelve day hangover makes me sick as a pup
and the
******
elves

I never heard the bullet call my name
I never felt the sunlight wash my face
I never heard my newborn baby's cry
I never saw her cradle when I died.

No one told me war was just a game
(they said I was a warrior- I was not)
that old men play with us, like we are toys
(they said I was a hero- I was not.)

Tell them to go and press my clean fatigues
and put my golden chevrons on my sleeves.
Tell my honor guard to have a care
for those who cannot know what soldiers bear.

Battlefields reveal the ways of war-
the bayonet impaled within a womb,
the scorching of the flesh that was a man-
rubble, piles and piles, an endless tomb.

If those who have a care for me and mine
may wish to say some words I'll never hear-
tell them, go away, and leave me be.
Tell them, mud and blood belong to me.

How desperate is the sun to stay afloat,
the sullen burning orange. The gulls
are not yet sated here,

quarreling for scraps and tidbits
clinging to the crusted foam
at water's edge. A buoy stands alert,

the bay's floating sentinel. Nearby,
an angler, struggling in the gloom,
strains to pull his tarpon in.

The harbor master knocks the rosy embers
from his pipe and, shrugging,
wipes his salty chin. In the water

by the tiki bar, a manatee disturbs
the surface, bobbing for rainwater
engendered by a sudden storm.

Refreshed, she spies a drunk, and disappears.
How quickly even purple fades to grey,
to twilight, and then the eager nothing.

Still, insufficient creatures that we are,
we feel the surging in our marrow,
pulling us further, further out to sea.

how sweetly she must hiss at me
my diamond death

I never meant to harm her day
she caught my breath

as I walked in green serene
in blessed ignorance

her gentle warning rattling
said her fangs were meant for me

for death is a woman
her coiling built for striking

gingerly I keep my distance
from beauty such as hers

as I bid her farewell
enjoy your sunlight

my love my death my dream
my sweetest of sweet poison

The guests have gone. No one came to stay.
All the cigarettes have burned away.

Mother wishes she could drink some more.
The bourbon bottles have no more to pour.

Her anger turns to tenderness instead.
Her ***** kisses send us off to bed.

I had forgotten what it looked like,
the death of a tree. Somehow
it all came back to me-

the empty hilltop holding it alone,
denuded of its bark. Somewhere
inside its core, the tree lived

the forgetfulness of death. Perhaps
it was the beetles and the grubs
that did it- although I doubt

the old boy ever knew what hit it.
High upon its former crown,
where freshened leaves once had grown,

grew a jagged slash that lightning
tore asunder. I'm sure the limbs
defied the angry thunder, while

creepers hugged the trunk and limbs together.
Above, the surly buzzards glided by,
wrapped up in a most indifferent sky.

Nobody lived in a village green-
Nobody wed the girl of dreams.
Nobody worked, and nobody earned-
Nobody fought, and nobody learned.
Nobody planned, and nobody schemed-
Nobody hoped, and nobody dreamed.
Nobody loved, and nobody lost-
Nobody knew what love would cost.
Nobody laughed, and nobody cried-
Nobody lived, and nobody died.

How dismal is the burning of the day
       as dusk ensues.        
Emerging from her burrow

               she tests her brittle light-
ON            OFF          ON          OFF
               her abdomen cold, yet hungry.

She seeks a mate-
               or so the males believe.
Tempted by her spark,

               they answer back.
The scanty light remaining
               reveals her true design-

the chewing jaws, the male deceived-
               while ragged cornstalks whisper,
               waving
                     goodnight
                           goodnight
                                   goodbye.

Under a raw red dusting of sky
stands the old man's dream.
"Colts want breaking, first thing,"
he says, chewing his words like fatback.

The mare stands mute within her stall,
neighing softly for her son.
The old man grabs the bridle of the colt,
leading it down the ***** of the corral-

But the beast is having none of it.
Electric is the blood within his breast,
a living wire of flesh. He stampedes
through the dirt, dragging the old man,

the rope's harsh friction slashing at his palms.
I see the colt, now fully charged,
tearing through the fence,
a frail and helpless wire electrified.

"Leroy!" I hear my mother cry behind me
as the old man tumbles in the dust.
"*** over teakettle," grunts the farmhand,
gnashing at his plug like fodder.

Ripped and bleeding, the colt's flank lies open.
"Aw hell," my father says, as he lies,
benumbed, covered with dust,
under a raw red dusting of sky.

The lines are not so long today, my friend.
Stay close. Do not wander.
Our Leader has assured us
we will be fulfilled. The past
has never been as kind to us

as our Leader is today.
And all he asks from us in return
is a bit more fear,
a bit more anguish,
a bit more loathing.

Surely we can give him that,
my friend. Have you heard
the new plan the Leader has asked
us to fulfill? Such a wonderful thing,
my friend. More grain, more bread,

more meat, more fuel for everyone.
And all the Leader asks of us
is that we work even harder.
Look, my friend, the line grows shorter.
Soon we will have bread,

if any remains. We will return
to our families with food for our bellies,
and before the broken bread
we will thank our Leader
for freeing us from the tyranny

of the Left (or was it the Right?
I can't remember) that kept us
down for so long.
Trust me, my friend.
Better times are coming soon.

A woman made of paper lies in bed.
Skin like parchment curls around her frame.

The tubes that tie her arms to bed
buzz like ****** in her veins.

A man of God stands by her bed
bearing brutal sabbaths in his hands.

His fingers made of paper, fingernails aflame.
And all the wasp woman wants

is to stretch her crispy paper wings
and fly away to heaven.

The ancient ones, when warfare came to stay,
knew what to do. They combed their hair
upon the rocks. Blades grew keen and bright.
Greaves were fastened sure about their *****.
Heads encased in helmets; eyes grew somber.
Return with all your shields, the women cried,
or else upon them. Battle smeared their tunics
red with blood. Some came home, and some
found homes where spirits are embraced.

Their descendants know a different way of war,
more lethal and more telling-
the bombard and the mass assault,
the arquebus and pike,
the canister and cannon,
the minie ball and shell,
mustard gas and trench mortar,
the blitzkrieg and the mushroom cloud,
cluster bomb and ******,
and silent death from above.

Some believe the noble way
is killing face-to-face-
but I confess that death at distance
also has its place.
Ancient peoples fought their battles
firmly on the ground-
but we fight on a sea of war,
and we must swim, or drown.

I once loved a woman who walked in the day-
My love was returned when she looked in my way-
And sweet was the bed where my lover would lay
in the crook of my arm
in the hollow of my arm
in the crook and the hollow of my arm.

Then soon came the day when she said, "We must wed"-
And cold grew the heart, and empty the bed-
And Death was the thing that I saw there instead
in the crook of her arm
in the hollow of her arm
in the crook and the hollow of her arm.

Now I go a-walking in woods of the night-
Where hoot owls are calling, and moonshine is bright-
And soon they will find me, my head hanging white
in the crook of my arm
in the hollow of my arm
in the crook and the hollow of my arm.

I let my cat outside the other day
(or perhaps he escaped- I don't recall)
he stayed away all night and day

then he returned- his freedom spent
with a furry present- a small brown
victim clenched within his jaws

he dropped the thing at my feet
at first the mouse was still
then fear took hold as it ran

the beast pounced and seized and released
eager paws batted prey to and fro
then the final act- the curtain drawn

and as I watched I could not help but think
how kind of cat and mouse
to play and die for our amusement

Your mind became no longer yours,
dear one. It escaped somehow
from fissures in your skull and,

sulking, retired to some distant corner.
Duality became you, while you became
unknown to all, an ever present terror

on the street. Did your anger crawl
beneath the sheets at night and nestle,
snarling, at your feet? Mere despair

became a blessing. Gods in ghostly white,
mindful of your tortured psyche,
dispensed therapy and pills-

an endless communion. I knelt there
with you, upon the alter unforgiving,
and in my lucid mind I prayed,

Bless me dear, for I have sinned
against you, neither of us knowing
how or why, as reason passed us by.

I thought I saw your face the other day.
I looked outside the window at the rain,

and as I watched the cold take hold,
the frosted ground embraced the frigid day.

I gazed upon the glass, somehow hoping that
your face would fill the space you left inside me.

But all I saw was empty glass,
crying for your face

to trace the tears of rain
you left upon the frozen window pane.

I saw it glitter
on the walk outside my door
a watch with no hands

the band was old
and cracked
the crystal scratched and dull

the universe consists
of bits of time
measured in a universal mind

the stellar stopwatch
ticks its way
from cosmic to mundane

how may we be measured
perhaps by the tossing curls
of a young girl's hair

cascading ringlets
singing in memory
perhaps by piercing loss

of what was close
yet all too distant
youth is dragging

chains of time
behind it
age will long for time

but fail to grasp
in a world where
no one escapes unscathed

time has kept us captured
perhaps the watch
with no hands

its handlessness endearing
will grant us time
to be human once again