nobody gave you their seat  
your bag looks heavy
sagging on your round shoulder
with the weight
of twice and thrice told tales
none of those seat hoggers
likely cared to hear,  
in our penitent past
you
had to sit
in the rear  
perhaps your bag holds stories
that old, that bold,  
now you are front and center
tethered to the bus and
this world with a rubber cord,
a hanging loop, for those
who wait for simple seats
or their journey’s end
at some blurry stop,
where others climb on
with their own weights and woes  
and clasp the same old strap
that drew defiant blood,
the loop that once strangled
freedom’s cries,  but now
is only a handle to grab
for those
who have no seat
on the same old road

tufts of grass sit in the yard  
hairy green patches of tenacity
in a field of neglect
half a screen guards
a **** stained door  
where someone painted, 214
the pit sits behind it
waiting to be fed
or to be chained again
to the stake
where, like any beast
bound by gravity
and the grave, he
will make ceaseless circles,  
smaller  e a c h  day,  
unwitting sentry to those
two legged creatures
inside, who
with or without the pit,
lie prostrate,
in dreamless
bug rich beds    
when they fall from sleep
they too make circles
bound by their own
stakes and chains
that can’t be seen
but their pull is felt
and
their eternal rattle heard
no matter how far from home
the prisoners of tulip roam

a lonely incandescent bulb
hangs from the ceiling  
its loud light
no longer muted
by a bug filled dome
shattered years ago  
by a long armed drunken rage
or perhaps
by the silent sober passing of age  
only the room remembers  
the weary, the hopeful, the lost
who sit by the window
waiting to be found  
watching the tenacious tumbleweeds
skitter down the empty streets
dodging dust devils
on their way
to plaintive plains
and boiling brown sky
the new shiftless shifting home
of soil ****** dry
the gray graveyards
for drought drenched dreams  
of those who now sit in the
rent-by-the-week room
in incandescent gloom
staring
at a false prophetic sky
with no tears left to cry

it begins, some say
long before the first breath
maybe even before the swimmer
finds his way to the egg  
perhaps from seeds
planted in smaller numbered years
or before years, before numbers  
in the cosmos’ first
coded coughing of carbon  
that timeless riddle of time
is in us, written in a script
we cannot read
in a tongue
we cannot hear, but sense
senselessly, eternally, we know
from it, only one
sacred, terrifying, holy, sustaining
truth:
that we return
to days of future past
where there IS no swimmer,
no egg, no crumbling bones
to commune with
blessed stones
only the slow dance
of stardust and
the memory of divine fire

whisking yesterday’s
chipped and shattered dreams
into you is
not a problem
the broom is there
my hands yet comply
with requests
from the command center
I see you, flat
on the floor
waiting, patiently
your tin blue stillness no threat
to me, or the dust
I watch you, I rummage through
the day's dull duties
and other dithering distractions
that wash over me,
more each menacing minute,
but
can
not
think
of your
name,
“it…”
rests on my tongue tip
weightless and wicked
my eyes and hands grip you,
with ease, but
what art thou???
what simple sound will summon you?
I am alone,
though if another were here
with me, you,
and your "itness"
the question would remain,
unspoken
with other nameless sorrows
for who would not be terrified to admit
that more and more tomorrows
will be without the august appellation,
“dustpan”
and whatever other words
time
blithely chooses to
permanently purloin

when
it became dark
it was the slow steady spinning
of the world we had to blame
while rockets huddled in their holes
waiting for the year zero
we could not count down
to cause, or pause
while superpowers chose an illusive détente
we mostly sipped complacency
from false hope cups
the world kept on spinning
the missiles slept
our nightmares became past tense
with no promise of future perfect
then
some-where
some-how
some-one
some
time
moved but a single digit,
a scrawny feeble fiddle on an impotent
OMNIPOTENT CATACLYSMIC APOCALYPTIC UBER DESTRUCTIVE  
hand
and
now
our darkness does not wait
for the casual yawing
of our few sextillion tons
it is there for all
to see for all times
though the times are no longer
measured as years
for stones, bones and ash
have no fears

I knew Pearl, comely, calm Pearl
eyes as blue as the skies
that warmed her sands
where we walked and talked
dreamed the days away
her voice so sweet on the Pacific winds
it made me forget about home
I was breaking daily bread
dipping it in the
yellow yolk promise of eggs
when little gunner Joe
said come down below
to see the kitty he found
crouched in the shadowed corner
no bigger than the rivets
get her some milk he said
when we placed the offering in front of her
she roared a lion’s roar…
and the roar kept coming
and the young living
thing
disappeared into the darkness...
the stench of smoke
the screeching screams
the fierce rocking of the hull
and blackness
which came too fast to touch
all spoke with equal madness
telling us doom
can come on a sunny Sunday morn
in Pearl’s land
falling,
is something we all know
in the flat land of dreams
in the lucky light of day, and
on that Sunday morn,
in the boiling bowels of our ship
slowly,
with some giant hand in command
the water, the water,
the water we all had grown to love
now taunting our feet,
then our knees
the pounding began
the eternal pounding
the pounding of the hopeful
in Pearl’s blue skies
and our pounding,
the pounding of the ******,
without any eyes
the water
now at our waists
now at our chests
and then only our frozen faces
against the hard steel that had been our home
had the last few breaths of air to breathe
heard the last few gasps of desperation
and the feeble futile pounding
of those in Pearl’s darkened sun…
now we rest in this sunken tomb
the guests roaming above
with cameras and tearless eyes
for they were not
the ones who heard our cries
those who did, do not return
for Pearl is no longer a sunny beach
and a stroll in a dream
but a place where the pounding started
and never stopped
and where the world changed forever
when the first bomb was dropped

the clanking of the radiator
is the only sound
except her breathing
which she measures
as if she knows
the finite number
until her last,
her coffee cold,
in it she sees the night
from which she came,
the blind, deaf walkers
the fuming taxis
she left
in the square streets
her eyes well
with the last drops
of the last love
of the last light
of the last star
in her galaxy of loss
only one drop falls
into her cradled cup
when it vanishes
in the indifferent sea
she sups it slowly
back inside
where the night belongs
but never stays

2 robin’s eggs at 5
100 jar caught bees
before I reached double digits
some brain cells in my teens
when I was 10 times 2
the tan man on the wire
by then,
there were rules about such things
and I broke them
even though nobody ever said I did
with the easy squeeze of a finger
on my shaking right hand, I
sent him to some “promised land”
but he didn’t go
he stayed right there
by the South China Sea
with me
stuck still as stone on that wire
with roses all over his back
(that was always nice of them to call the exit wound a rose effect, don’t you think?)
a buzzard at 23--high flying in a blue Texas sky
clipped him with my 22 from 400 meters--he spun once
his black noble greasy carcass
disappeared into the horizon I could never reach
a rabbit at 30,
skittering through the Oklahoma snow
we let him lay and freeze
at 40, 2 doves with 1 shot from a 12 gauge
I didn’t have a hunting license
but hell, at half that age I was taught
you don’t need a license to ****
only a will

J R died
I guess many cried
J R Ewing, Larry Hagman,
son of Broadway’s Peter Pan
offspring of a famous clan
I guess a decent man
another J R died, Jenny Rae
I guess many cried
but not likely fans from afar
perhaps
her nephew in the corner bar
when he recalled
through his wine soaked haze
younger days, when his Jenny Rae
would meet him payday
and give him a five she earned
keepin’ those old folks alive
well, cleanin’ up their slop
may not have been keeping anybody alive
but she did it just the same
even long after the cancer came
and pain buckled her over on the bus,
she kept goin’
smiling at their ancient vacant stares
when she could
when she was gone
when she passed,
curled up like a baby in that noisy ER
there were no headlines about that J R
only another wretched woman
paid to clean up slop
who hunkered faithfully over her mop
to wipe up the remnants of Jenny Rae
to earn her pittance of pay
perhaps for another nephew
or other lost son of an angry day

Lincoln gave you
your official day
but I must say
I don’t suspect he saw
faux green fields
with helmeted gladiators
of a new age
playing for millions of eyes
and millions of bucks
while the thankful, and the stuffed,
sat
glued to the flat screen
hooting an hollering
for cheap victory
belying loyalty to brands
stamped on jerseys
that are valued more
than the grandest feast

grease black armies
floating on the blue currents  
your swoops and swoons
a patient ballet
the dull dirge
of the road ****
while we listen
expecting to hear
the sound of one hand clapping
and rush to scribe scrolls
of high born truths,
you know no haste
you descend
through the cool currents
kneel over the dead
tell a truer tale
with talons and teeth
until your gnawing silent ceremony
is blasphemed
by
a
careless
careening
car

in the deadest waters
of your cruel swamp
we heard your voice
sliding on the surface
like a perfectly sailed skiff
avoiding the murky depths
…for an illusive while
reaching our ears softly
lulling us to sleep
on your shell shocked shores
we had no need
to awake
while you sank,
a leviathan in red white and blue,
making only impotent cries
and cyber ripples
before your bloated belly
zagged and zigged
to the black bottom
while we slept
under the spell
of your lost incantations
and spoke in dreamlike verse
of once great nations

are there any takers
who choose to look
into the electric mist
where there is
no sun
yet still
shadows of men
with their longing arms
curling
like ancient gnarled oaks,  
their legs like roots mired
in the sanctified mud
where we ask
if whispers of men
are really screams of ghosts
are there any takers
who choose
to wander this fog
to hear the symphony
of the dead, in
the gray haze
of dreary dreams
beyond this long walk
there
is
no
beyond the grave
only the soft siphoned roar
around it
in,
of
the electric mist

one chunk at a time
he knelt
grabbing each stone
casting it into the barrow
sometimes counting
sometimes not
all to clear his field
for the planting
for tomorrow’s time
while the stones
behind him
silent in the rusted tray
measured other worlds
other time

El Paso,
the pass
unforgiving
sand and sun
but
at peace with itself, strangely
across a thin ribbon of river
from
red blood
******
on Juarez streets
I roamed
in my strutting youth
now we are all sixty
plus or minus one or two
and afraid to cross the border
whether it leads to
a flashing frenzy
of staccato notes
that finish our song
or a slow dance on the killing floor

Aunt Gracie took me there
for a philly and five cent cee-gar
old enough to fight,
old enough to puff on that stogie
she said
(and not much more)
I spun my stool like I was on a carnival ride
(had only one beer with Uncle Lon, but your first beer is the best)
and Gracie looked at me
like I was still the kid
who broke her basement window
with a bad pitch
when I was ten
yeah, I was, still that boy
seven years later
in that glass box of light
humming in the concrete night
big round Gracie smilin’ at me,
looking like she was gonna cry
she had signed those papers
lied with that pen
making me old enough to be a killer
and smoke that cigar, I suppose
the couple eating eggs and bacon
asked if I was shipping out
six AM, yes sir
the woman smiled like Gracie
the man nodded his head, said
**** a *** for me
sure thing, sure thing
me thinking killing one of them
would let me live,
forever,
forever, and wouldn’t be any different
from playin’ God with bee-bees and birds
which I had done a time or two
with my Daisy
cook put my philly in front of me
his eyes locked on the counter
like someone condemned
to never hold his head up high
and trapped in that diner
forever,
forever feeding
me and other nighthawks
who come to this place
the last space of light
in the hungry night
thanks for the sandwich, I said
he said that’s free
but the man eatin’ eggs
said it’s on me
cook didn’t look at the man
went to cleaning some pan
was then I noticed he limped
bad
I asked how he got hurt
he kept his eyes on his sink
said, it was a long time
before this night
were you born that way?
nobody born this way son
Gracie’s elbow nudged mine
but sixteen and full of all
of one beer, I was gonna keep askin’
how--
it was a long time
before this night
I know, but how--
guess you’ll know
soon enough
we were
clawing our way
from a French trench
filled with gas and gasps
of boys with your face
too dead to cry, too dead to scream
when those machine gunners cut loose
what I got was some good luck
and one of those big rounds
in my knee
Gracie’s elbow moved away
she put her hand on my leg
(my hand was on my philly, limp and still)
you got shot by the Krauts in the Great War?
he didn’t say anymore
and I didn’t eat my meal
　
Gracie was good to me,
I know she wrote all the time
but we didn’t always get our mail
on those big ships, many men
would leave their suppers on the floor
in all that stink of seasick
they taught me to play cards
told me jokes, gave me smokes
Lucky Strikes
we were going to some place
with a funny sounding name
Ee-wa Gee-ma, Ee-wa Gee-ma
at night, when I would look
at the black bottom of the bunk above me
I would see
someplace green, Ee-wa, sunny, Gee-ma
someplace with curling trees
and birds for my daisy to shoot at
other nights, in that dark,
in that stale stink of tobacco and puke
I would see the humming light
of the diner that night, wishing
I had eaten that philly sandwich
and smoked that cigar
(which I left by the plate)
I would think of Gracie
and how she begged me
to confess my sins
(to the recruiting sergeant)
to come back
safe, whole, she said
(but I didn’t know what whole meant)
after that, I heard only the voices of men
some barking orders and commands
others whimpering,
whispering
in the same dark
ship of steel
　
　
when I saw the grey rocks
and flak-filled sky, and heard
the swoosh of surf
and the thunder
of our ships’ guns
and some rat-tat-tat
from the invisible holes
I knew I knew,
nothing yet of hell
　
Happy, we called him
was dead
all nineteen years of him
on that **** hole of beach
his guts strewn across the sand
(his life story I guess)
making their peace with *****
and the red and black blood
of other boys and men
who played cards
and flipped open their Zippos
to light my smokes
told me jokes
and laced their boots with me
that very morning
　
by the time
the ramp fell
I spotted Happy
my stinging eyes stuck
to his shredded belly
we, all of us, fell forward
into the shallow Pacific
ran, with all our gear clanging
to dunes high enough to hide
to hide,
but only long enough
to catch our breath
and smell cordite, fear-sweat,
and burned flesh
we did not take time to gag
over the dunes we went
told to make it to a rock
some twenty of us
to a rock no bigger than Lon’s ‘36 coupe
by the time we hid behind the rock
only eight of us hunched there
the others were where?
didn’t know, didn’t care
I had my piece of rock
rounds kept poppin’ off
the other side
from all those invisible holes
filled with slant eyed demons
my ears were ringing
when I heard the corporal say
start putting fire on that hole
what hole, what hole, what hole
the words were stuck somewhere
deep inside, not in my throat
but they were there
trying to ask him where
what hole? what hole
(I thought for a moment about Gracie and coming back whole?)
the corporal, OK, I forgot his **** name
he wasn’t in my platoon
he said put some fire on that hole
one more time
but then when he got up to shoot his M-1
something made his helmet fly off
and most of him went to the ground
the part that didn’t go out the back of his head
Tommy grabbed my arm
(Tommy taught me that four of a kind beats a full house)
and said something
and said it again
over there, over there
OVER THERE
when I looked where he was looking
I saw them, one with a tan helmet,
the other with a shiny black head of hair
Tommy was trying to point his M-1
at those **** who were firing
their 92 machine gun
at those boys on the beach
I pointed my M-1 at them too
but my hands were shaking too bad to aim
Tommy aimed I think
and we both kept shootin’ at those ****
who finally just looked like they went to sleep
but they never woke up
but neither did the other six boys
who were hiding behind that rock with us
because as soon as Tommy and me
started shootin’ at those ****,
they turned that 92 at us
but all those boys were in front of us
pressed so tight against that stingy rock
they couldn’t breathe
or move
even enough
to get their M-1 carbines
turned
in the right direction
so when those **** turned that 92
on the bunch of us
Tommy and I were in the right place
behind six poor boys
who couldn’t move
and got their young bodies
peppered with every round
that come from the hot barrel
of that *** 92 machine gun
once those two *** boys were asleep
I felt something warm on my arm
it was blood from Hector’s face
but Hector didn’t have a face left
part of it was on my sleeve
I think
but I didn’t look
Hector was in my squad
and he wore a Saint Christopher
to keep him safe
Hector didn’t lose all his head
like I heard Saint Christopher did
but most of it
and if that pendant
and all his mama’s prayers
didn’t keep him safe
I guess nothing could
　
I don’t remember when
I was able to sleep
through a whole night
without wakin’ up
thinking about
Hector, the corporal
and the other five boys
who died right there
behind the rock
there were a million other rocks
where boys
“went to sleep”
only they didn’t wake up
feeling Hector’s warm blood
on their arms
shivering
before it even got cold,
dry, and black
　
Gracie told me
the diner closed
she didn’t know why
but now
when I can’t sleep
and walk the pavement
in the middle of the city night
I go to that dark corner cafe
looking for the buzzing light
I want my cigar I did not smoke
and once again hear the words
the limping man spoke
I don’t have any more questions
he won’t want to answer
but if I did
they might be stuck
down inside
not in my throat
but deeper
where things churn
but don’t ever get seen or heard
I do wonder
if those other boys
at the rock,
and those other rocks,
all those other rocks
are taking these lonely late night walks
or if they had talked
with a limping man
who fed them for free
who thought he was lucky
and spoke words
no young eager bird killers
could yet understand

dragons in my dreams
drag queens on my streets
where was I to hide?
falling
through toxic clouds
of atomic belched aphorisms
holding my nose ‘til my lungs
screamed primal screams
that nobody ever heard
with their ears stopped
like the rowers of Ulysses
while he listened to the
sirens
I heard them too, I heard them, I HEARD them
faintly,
like the whiffed spread of black buzzards’ wings before the ****
but the sirens have beards, those wily wenches
and smell of cat ****
naked enough to have me covet
what they are not
I want them, I need them
for I don’t know what bliss is
bliss, bliss, bliss
is that what I sought?
is that what sages taught?
when they had me kneel
and put a wreath upon my head
told me to chant, silently, inwardly
told me there was no shortage of truth
I heard them, cherished every word,
no matter how absurd
because I thought they could help me fly
but then I choked on the smoke
from their farted anointed flames
that filled the sky I was told was blue
it was not only me
to whom they lied
who would not fall prey to their fiery shafts?
but when I awoke, they were not there
and all that was left in the waking world
were the scabbed burns they left on my soul
the dying crownless queens
who roamed the oily streets
the stench in my flaring nostrils
and the bit in my teeth
no chariot to fly above those **** filled clouds
that would rain vain vapid truth on me
for the rest of my unholy days…
the rest of my unholy days

close your eyes
shut out the fickle light
leave this place
where your feet drag in the devil’s dust,
your arms flail in ancient red slime,
and blue skies have
turned gray with
the ashes of drunken dreams
fear not what the old ones have said
about the last gasps
let your body
find the indifferent earth
where the light you have always craved,
like one eternally bedeviled
by a desert thirst,
becomes a soft black song…
*peto somnus

11/11/1918
12/07/1941
11/22/1963
09/11/2001

catching children
before they fall from cliffs
can be tiresome
perhaps ‘tis our mission
to prevent the fall

but    

we fail
slashed down by
numbers and slashes
09/11/2001
slashes, numbers
blood, sweat, and tears
mangled memories and fears

if they could only
play longer
in fields of rye
but we must blink an eye
then they grow grievances
not wings,
fall from friendly fields
and from our sight
and make the plunge
into the fiery night

if only numbers and slashes would not prevail…

two
of us
lying
on our stomachs
and to each other
silently
did he see
what I saw
did he smell
what I smell
how close were they
to us
how many were there
I have only one magazine left
he has two
if he
gets it first
I will grab his
what
would he think
if he knew
what I thought
I want to ask him
“are there any ***** there”
but my whisper
will be a lighthouse of sound
to Charlie
a beacon for him
to hone in on
and zap me
so I don’t whisper
and neither does he
I wondered
with all my squad members
dead around me
if he ****** his pants
like I did
not during the firefight
but two eternal hours later
two hours in this black grass
under this black sky
my thoughts of the noble dead
drowned by my ****
who knows
what others thought
in black pre-nothingness
God I want to whisper to him
to ask if he ****** on himself
to ask if he could see Charlie
to ask if he was thinking of home
to ask if knew I was alive
four feet from his elbow
smelling
my ****
the oil on his weapon
the dead buddies
all around us
and the sweat of the VC
I wanted to ask
in a whiffed whisper
but
could not
for questions have answers
but answers may have nothing
so I did not
and when the sun
slowly washed the night away
I still
couldn’t bring
myself to ask
if we…
if we
were still alive

Like the serpent
from the Garden
I get a bad rap
but not for tempting
the infinite innocent
into damnation

I don’t attempt to deceive
or get the children to believe
the fruit is theirs for the taking
and I expect none to be forsaking
the father who gave them life

but cursed nonetheless
for what I spew and spin
but I lead no soul to sin

I only want a bug now and then

i don’t wait for nothin’
i see what’s comin’
ain’t no better than yesterday
when i made the mistake
of waitin’ for today
thinkin’ that familiar heartbreak
might take a sorry vacation
from my bones and soul
but today came
like some devil i knew
but couldn’t name
and here i be again
waitin’

the ubiquitous screen
that we all have seen
for myriad hours
has magical powers
it brings us tales of suffering and woe
but allows us to vicariously go
to lands without menacing misery
with a simple tap on the remote

but when we think we've gotten our couch potato *****
far from the palpable pain of the muddied masses
we see the ads for... feline cuisine
tasty, tempting morsels
in delectable sauces

what little kitty could resist
yes, what little kitty could resist
while billions struggle to simply exist
like monkey'd maggots on rotting meat
they don't care if their meal is a treat
only that their aching guts are at least half full
while cat lovers are caught in the insouciant pull
of ads for the "cat chef's" royal feasts
for their most noble of beasts
who purr and play with ***** of yarn for our delight
and allow us to forget the interminable plight
of the muddied masses who have no magic screen
and couldn't give a **** about cat cuisine

(Please see note below*)
they hurt me
first in their lorry load
with a blind foot and
callous eye
then came the others
to shatter my windows to the
indifferent world
that gave birth to them
same as me

but I don’t have the time to disdain
for we are all part of the human strain
I have a story
being penned by the same hand
that wrote the miscreants' creeds
and crafted their sorrowful deeds

they did not see me
when they mowed me down like some wayward ****
or smashed the glass that was once sand
before it was blessed by a fiery hand

but they
they did not cherish the act
of creation
but reveled in desecration
not of my brittle bones and
my aged but glimmering glass
but part of me
they would never see
the story I have to tell
that separates heaven from hell
and me from them
while my eyes can still see