93 million miles Ra’s rays travel
and light your cratered face

as you rise between monoliths
where janitors man buffers

and ambitious white collars sit by crumpled fast food wrappers
devouring data, dreaming of their own ascension

while you climb ten floors a minute

tomorrow, our wide world will shave a corner from you
in a fortnight, you will be a white whisper

though surely as our stone spins, you will again
become gibbous--then regally full

inside the scrapers, the buffers yet buzz,
the aspiring giants yet yearn for more

while you remain, silent light in the night,
unperturbed by their folly

children all, in this field of white stones:

a thousand twin sons from different mothers

all is math, though here subtraction reigns supreme

I take four numbers from four, and am left with nothing

minuend deaths, subtrahend births

whether the difference is nineteen or twenty-nine, both now equal zero

zero years to return to a mother's desperate loving arms,

zero years to marry a sweetheart, raise a son, or again hoist a flag

for now the baneful banner is folded neatly,

for those whose numbers I tabulate

in this garden of the early dead

where errant weeds are slaughtered

lest they blaspheme the chosen grasses

kept neatly above the chosen ******

in Ohio, Mother
hung our laundry humming,
clothespins in her mouth

in Texas, she made my father
buy a dryer after angry wet sheets whopped her face
more than one blustery afternoon  

scarcely a score before
Panhandle winds were often roiling clouds,
black as charcoal, laying waste to everything
that grew and breathed

old men at the feed store talked
about the dusters from back then
and about every drop of rain,
every white flake that fell

I missed going barefoot
and fast learned to hate goat heads,
and all thorny things that thrived
in that flat land

Mother despised the hot winds almost as much
as the cool stares she got from the church women
whenever she opened her mouth, revealing
she wasn't one of them

Mother ended words
with “ing,” the extra consonant considered
superfluous at best, blasphemous
to some

men and women both
sounded to me like they had grist
from the silos in their mouths

my father had lived there
as a boy, swore he would never return
the dreaded dust still clinging to his clothes
when he left for the war

oil money brought him back
but only long enough for his skull
to be cracked dead by hard pipe

his insurance settlement
bought us a place in the Buckeye State
as quick as the lid flapped shut
on our mailbox

Mother wept little
until our first night back
in Ohio, when a blizzard knocked out
the lights, and our two candles burned flat
in the cold

my uncle brought bread, butter
and warm soup, which we ate in the gloom
while Mother told my father's favorite brother
how much we loved the Texas sun

the sound of one hand clapping

to the silent symphony within

where cells sprout and die,

and red tides ebb and flow,
but no one seems to know

what keeps the conductor
waving his magic wand

I wrote a poem
called feather light

in which a man
took flight like raptors

from a ledge where those creatures
were known to perch

for a minuscule morsel of time
the man felt feather light in his free fall,

but that didn't last--soon the grave grip
of gravity made its presence known

though before he landed
on the pine green canyon floor

the sluggish tug of memory
yanked on him rudely, and lumped his throat

dispelling the manic myth one's life
passes before one's eyes in that final moment

all he saw, save the tree tops
and the shimmering river

was a door closing, the one where she
was on the other side, suitcase in tow

and he was left with a tear drenched face
and aching heart--a lover jilted, again

yes, that was what the poem was about
(but my PC ate it and crapped it out into cyberspace)

a roadkill feast, this doe that met truck bumper the black night before

now in the Texas sun, talons and beaks make easy work of eyeballs and entrails

the asphalt a convenient griddle, slow cooking dead deer, while the ravenous birds dine

somewhere in the brush, a childless mother, with no incantation to bring her baby back

this creature without words only senses a void--******* no longer gnawed and ******

what mourning for this loss, now attended to by buzzards fast filling their guts

until I come upon them, my own bumper approaching at warp speed

my metal beast to avenge this desecration
with a twist of my wrist, a turn of tires

fast from the red road a flapping of blue-black wings--all but one escapes my wrath

he took too long to take flight, unaware my grill could **** with such impunity

a simple twist of the wrist, a bump, a thump, and one less vulture feeds on the dead

above him, his brethren wait, riding cool currents -- my execution but a brief deterrent to their wake

Goodbye Charlie, Hello Vietnam.

Nineteen. I was ten and nine. Two A.M. Landed in some muggy, putrid place. Between honor and complete disgrace. Smelled like that for sure.  Issued tools of our trade. Heard the true sound of “rockets red glare”. Had us hunkering in bunkers all night. ******* in our helmets. Holding our ears. ****, the first night. Welcome to Vee-et-nam.

Morning. Sunshine and quiet. Except the rap from old timers. “Newbies“. New jungle fatigues. Newbies. New M-16. Clean boots. All day the old timers, telling each other how these newbies had their cherry popped. First night in country and the biggest *** mortar attack they had ever seen. Heard. Heard, I said. Yeah. What newbie? Now you have heard the real rockets’ red glare. That’s what you heard, Newbie.

I get it. Newbies are ****. We are **** and they aren’t going to waste a breath telling us anything. Watch. Watch and learn. I hope. Lines. Lines to get our teeth rinsed with fluoride. Lines. To chow. To get more shots. To in country orientation. Lines. Memorize lines. Lines to get ammo. Lines to get orders.

No line at the outhouse. Gray three seater. Heat roasting our ****. Old timer kicked the planks before he sat down beside me in the stench. I asked the question but only with my eyes. Kick the planks before you sit down so rats won’t bite your ***** off. Kick the planks to scare off the rats. Rats. The size of possum. Not an exaggeration. Possum rats. Rat possums. Who the hell knew? Just kick the planks. Save your *****.

More lines. Then darkness. Then more booms. Not incoming. Our own. 1-5-5s. Learn the difference newbie so you don’t crap your drawers for nothing. That’s the boys in that artillery firebase keeping Charlie awake for the night. Returning the favor. Charlie. Sounds like a name you would call someone who was a buddy doesn’t it? Charlie. Victor Charlie. V C. ***** Charlie. **** Charlie. Charlie this and Charlie that. Oh, Charlie would eat that rat.

My first duty. Guarding Charlie. Prisoner with leg blown off at the knee in our clean smelling dispensary. Hands strapped to bed rails. MP and I assigned night shift. Keep each other awake . Looked at Charlie. Charlie looked at me. Smirk. Then spit. Landed on my boot. My newbie boot. Not a newbie boot anymore. Charlie squirms. Spits again and misses. MP gets up and threatens to bash Charlie in Charlie’s little head. Medic comes and gives squirming, smirking, spitting Charlie shot of good drugs. Charlie doesn’t spit on medic. Charlie gets drowsy. I get drowsy. MP falls asleep. I stand up. Newbie afraid to fall asleep on guard duty. I wake the MP before shift change. Charlie is up. Smirk, smirk. Thus spoke Charlie. The only conversation I ever had with Charlie.

Medic says Charlie getting on a bird to someplace. Can’t remember where. Anyplace.   Charlie leaving and me staying. Ain’t that a hoot--all it cost him was a boot. Envy is a word I learned that day. Cost him part of a leg medic says when I tell him I wish I was Charlie just then. Had heard tales about people shooting off their toes to get out of the ‘nam. “**** tales” I would call them, since I heard so many in those gray crappers. Rats. Possum rats and your *****. ***** or a limb? Did I really want to be him? I don’t really remember. I didn’t want to be there--somewhere between honor and complete disgrace. Bye Charlie. Hello Vietnam.

grub worms, grave gravity,
failed romances, the fate of the Great Auk,
a death too young, a silent sacred dance
of butterflies

all flow behind my eyes
song lyrics whose melodies
never quite reach my ears, so
I plop verses on a page

an elder adolescent sage  
writing in riddle, sometimes rhyme, committing
the crime of filching grist born of life's abundant mill,
and bastardizing it, carelessly, at will

It was not really thee
bards of the ages
who inspired me
but of your wages
I shall purloin lithe lines
to add to the meager confines
of my tailored tale

nineteen
green
inside and out
not knowing when I would be ripe
cramming all the ammo clips I could find
into my fresh jungle fatigues
he
the sage of 2nd platoon
told me of the frightful night
when
in the midst of a hellish firefight
he reached for more clips
and found only the remnants of chips
tasty morsels when first consumed
but then a sign he was doomed
“NO MORE AMMO—****”
he sunk even lower into the carpet of night
but to his ironic delight
“the **** that was shooting at me ran out of ammo too”
after exchanging an infinite stare
both fled into the ebony air
the moral of his twice told fable
grab all the ammo clips you are able

and the sage from 1st platoon said,
one night when our brains were brimming with beer
that a full bladder was also something to fear
for being distracted by the urge to ****
could perhaps be the reason we would miss
“some **** slithering through the black grass,
and that, my friends, could mean your ***”

so their caveats did not fall on deaf ears
although
they were filtered by my too few reckless years
yet, I snatched all the clips I could carry
on my 140 pounds of nineteen
and took not one sip from my canteen

others words bounced around my crowded skull
some were from rapier wit and others were dull
but the ones to which I would listen
were the ones that gave me hope for
another day of light
after the perpetual blind night
in the land of the ******

I had learned to walk without sound
all on my own
and find a place to crouch
where not even the dead
could see me, I would briefly imagine
but they were there
permeating the dank air
with silent dirges to their demise
and me waiting with cracked open eyes
for one to come alive
and yank my young *** into some dark hole

we have always seen things in the dark
while hiding from the devil our sisters said would come
under our blankets with one eye closed and the other agape
he was coming, she would say, to get you
for being….born
sometimes, the chosen, the blessed souls,
would forget he was there
and breath calm air
and walk into the life of nineteen
with a full canteen but
not worried about a full bladder
and missing Jacob’s ladder

but those of us who came to this wicked place
could not blithely put our demons to rest
and they continued their animated fest
in the darkness our eyes could not penetrate
and our spirits could not relegate
to the silent land of the past

there could have been a dozen, live ones,
snaking their way through the grass
close enough to smell my sweat
or perhaps only one
crouched in his own woeful world
miles away through the ****** jungle
but it did not matter
for in my wordless chatter
they were all around
maybe the same ones in my childhood room
coming to thicken the gloom
with another tormented soul
who at nineteen
was afraid to drink from his canteen

I would stop seeing them
at some point
but only for a shallow breath or two
then they would be there again
and I would hear nothing
except the other sages
from those ancient pages
where my eyes followed my fingers in curious delight
far from this lethal foaming night

"Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me
the carriage held just ourselves and immortality"
"Death be not proud, though some have called thee so"
“I looked in vain for another path for my feet
but they were all too small
except the one labeled ‘Death Street’”

and other less ominous verse would take the chance
to make its way into my riddled trance,
“Nature’s first green is gold,
her hardest hue to hold
her early leaf’s a flower,
but only so an hour
then leaf subsides to leaf
so Eden sank to grief
so dawn goes down to day
nothing gold can stay”

nothing gold, nor green I would recall
and when I would lose the light lull of the verse
I would again begin to traverse
into the blind black depths in front of my eyes
and the devils would tauntingly reappear
and I would again hear
the nothingness we all share
there
in the land of the ******
with a full canteen
and an M-16
at nineteen

brushstrokes, some broad,  
some as narrow as one fine hair,  
are often red  

scarlet and scattered
across the canvas, splattered
against a crumbling wall, where,
for no rhyme or reason, the artist
may place a wilted wreath of flowers,
pallid, yellow
      
horses and people, babes
and the ancient not spared  
their share of the crimson cream  
the painter heaped munificently
on their mangled remains

Paris, Beirut, Yola yet to be painted
but there is still time: in its abundance
someone else will need only lift a hand  
to spill the ubiquitous blood      

our palettes do own other hues
black for charred crosses, white,
the lightning streaked screaming sky
but  none so plentiful as the red  
none so plentiful as the red

he sits on the curb
all twelve years of him,
waiting to be a teen

when he'll have to pay
adult price for a movie ticket
or bus pass

he usually has no cash
for either; but wishing and waiting
are art forms to him

he's learned to move
the brush of time slowly on life's palette
while he watches others whizzing by

on their store-bought skateboards
and Huffy ten speed bikes, while he has
only one gear for two feet

which now are clad in Keds
from the thrift store, and planted
firmly on the cement

by the drain gutter,  where he
last saw his favorite possession, a Super Ball,
get ****** into the sewer

when the storm ended, he yanked
off the manhole cover and crawled into
the dark, but the ball was gone forever

when he came back into the street,
yet lamenting his round loss, more boys
on bikes buzzed by

their circles safely spinning
on asphalt, far from the gutter and curb where
he once again sat--wishing, waiting

Baltimore, 1965

I visited her cottage each month, never
staying the night

through her window by the oak table
we watched the surf

on days when the sea was angry, we could hear
the waves crack against earth's spare spine

those times I liked, for she would hold my hand,
tightly, like I was her tether to the wide world

I would leave as the sun set, the moment a million
gold sparkles vanished from the waters

when I found her, I pretended she was asleep
but her eyes were open and still

staring it seemed through the same window
I sat with her and rubbed her cold hand

I stayed until the sun sank into the same salty sea
wondering if the old tales were true...

if a billion tears had flowed into the blue depths
making a soulful brine

I know mine fell on the soggy sand, disappearing
in the dusk that swallowed my tracks

in the hall, I listen as she calls out
his name

not aware I am there,
nor would she care

if I open the door without making
a sound,

I purloin a few seconds to watch her
before she sees me

when her eyes catch mine,
she looks away

the morning sun makes a sympathetic effort
to light our room

"our" room which from which I have
been excommunicated

the drapes she sewed only last summer
are never open

that is her world, staring through
baby blue curtains

which mute the half light of morning,
though not enough

not enough to blind her to the spot
where her son's crib waited

until I committed the unpardonable
sin of taking it to the cold cellar

only a fortnight after our stillborn child
was placed in the ground

what happens to an effluvium held in?
does it seep through minuscule pores in the skin?
or does it skulk out like the phrase, "silent but deadly"?
does it stink like choking sulfur mined?
or does just hang close to one’s behind?
perhaps it leaves a telltale mark
and even causes your dog to bark
does it tell the smeller’s olfactory
something revealing about thee?
or are effluvia all about the same
whether ‘tis prince or pauper to blame?
alas, all we hominids produce several pounds
of the aromatic elixir each day
making it fairly safe to say
that holding it in would be a ****** crime
and cutting a big one hardly makes one less sublime

Langston* said what happens
when dreams don't come true:
they fester, stink, or explode

but hell, hear what I say
colored girls ain't got no dreams,
what we got is schemes to make it
from here 'til tomorrow

and we don't drown saggin'
sorrow in gin, or the big H--least ways
not all of us do

it's true, the man done piled
on ****, high as it can be stacked on us
but we don't all ride no pity bus

the streets don't weep for the weak
or those of us who spread our legs to get us
a baby--a toy all our own

cause when he's all grown, he ain't
goin' be there to fill our empty bellies
or make us proud

so go on say it loud:
black girls don't need nobody
show 'em the way

and one day, we goin'
take what's ours--we just don't expect
to reach for no stars

we be fine with settlin'
for someone callin' us by name
and not feelin' no **** shame

Covenant Avenue, Harlem, 1968

we are
all plagued
by some churning remnants
of haunting pain and shame
but we are not to blame
for repentance oft falls short
no matter how much we try to exhort
these murky maddening memories to depart
they flow yet in even the purest heart

for me
my crimes, too many to enumerate,
will all cause me to self deprecate,
but of the ones I seem to recall
the deed that taunts me most of all
was the simple thoughtless movement
of two five year old fingers
I used
to crush
two sublimely blue
robin's eggs
in a nest
on a promising bright afternoon
in the dark land of memory

he liked it black
scalding his tongue
to wake to pain rather
than wait for caffeine’s
slow tugging

that was his way
while she lay on crumpled sheets
breathing the air they scented
with their raw rolling

he wanted a reminder
a scorched tongue to bring him back
to his solitude--to remind him
their naked chants cast a spell

that lasted no longer
than the moon’s arc if they were lucky enough
to be fooled their union meant immortality

rather than a desperate throbbing
in fading light, with him closing his eyes
to avoid her stare

and her wondering where
he went in the aftermath of lust while
she slept with dripping dreams…

she only knew
what he said each new morn:
he liked it black

and you ain't gotta dig too deep
to find it

it's right behind your eyes, in that picture
you see

of Mama runnin' half naked from the house covered
in blood and snot

and crack crazed daddy chasing after her
with a butcher knife

before the man come and gunned
him down

it's there in that lump throat memory of grandad telling you his own Papa got the whip

for standing tall against a bulldog
Alabama sheriff

hell is being sent to Granny
for foster care

and her telling you she ain't got enough
food for herself

it's wearing shoes so tight
every step is a jab

a reminder everything you do
is gonna come with pain

what Hell ain't is what that fat pastor
claims it to be

some fiery place I can't even
see

buried so far down I can't feel
its infernal heat

hell, hell is right here on my black
and blood painted street

it never occurred to him,
not even late in the light of day,
he had paid scant attention
to birds

he heard the mourning doves
and saw a black ****** of crows scavenge
for crumbs at his feet at the outdoor cafe;
a crimson cardinal caught his eye, once

but most days he looked little
to the skies, and couldn't tell a wondrous warbler
from a fine finch--vultures and eagles were the same:
carrion eaters, high flyers

this, his avian compendium complete,
save hummingbirds he recalled outside his kitchen window
as a child, when his mother would bake bread
and fill the feeder with sugar water

the buzzing birds had caught his eye, until
his mother passed; then he failed to feed the tiny flock;
where they went he did not know, for he had little
wonder where winged creatures go

he tells me dark secrets  
and paints colors on the shore
where the salt mist speaks to him
in voices heard no more  

along he wades, watching
the growing ground at his feet
careful to not crush creatures in the surf  
***** crawling to bed themselves
in their own tugging time
before the moon full tides  

slowly, he walks
as if one long step
might fling him into the abyss  
he does not fear the fall,  
he knows, it comes to all,
fishmongers and kings  
falcons with their mighty wings  
all share the descent, as the sea
turns from blue to black    

while I hide far inland
he paints me dark secrets
vanishing tracks in the sand,
and I long to hear his brush strokes,
to see what vast weary waves reveal,
through his teary eyes

the carpet was her friend  
its woven pile stitched by a Java descendent
just for this sparkling occasion, or a thousand others  
when she slithered across it  
to find the crystal goblet,
or porcelain bowl      

the night began with promise
a phone call from him, or the other him
saying he would be there after dinner
when it was night enough to enter
under cover of darkness  

last time he had entered on the sofa,
though she didn’t remember anything
but rolling onto the floor, and waking the next morn
rug burns on her back, dry tracks of him on her thighs  
and the carpet to the door    

she had asked for more,
more of him, more of the wine, more of the night
that came and went like he, without so much
as a by your leave  

doubtless there would be
other nights, when they would turn off the lights
and sink as one, in a silken simmering sea
together to find treasures
on the ancient floor…  

more likely,
in her world of more,
he would walk away again  
her left draped in sweat,
and the familiar scent  
of disappointment

white caps, near her shore
nothing more--those and voices
in the breaking waves

she alone hears,
as code deciphered,
their scribe, she is

faithful to the crashing
rhythm, in which she reads
the dance of the dead  

countless fishes' swishes,  
harpooned whales’ wailing, myriad men
mourning, as vessels foundered

white caps, waves, sand
symphony she alone hears, sees, smells
and understands as dirge

in plain print, he tells me it's a hawk
with a broken wing

I close my eyes...all I see is a black,
greasy bird, barely bigger than a sparrow

not even worthy of Poe-itizing into a raven;
certainly not a fierce falcon

why can't I see thee, red tailed hunter?
you hiding in clouds adrift behind my eyes?

no, the crow's there, shining in a gold sun; seems
I'm not destined to imagine grander birds of prey

at least not today, reading your words of broken things,
the dark clouds of your dreams

he swore it was Sasquatch
who mauled him at his camp
when the last logs were but
hissing embers in his pit

others spotted them
in the Ouachitas--a pastor, constable
and my own son, likely high on hash,
said he heard Bigfoot's heavy rumbling
in a light rain

I was the doc on call,
when the man's pick up rolled to a dead stop
at the ER door--addled, he swore the beast
brought him to us, without ever having
been in his truck's cab

I hadn't seen such lacerations
except when self induced, but the man
did not waver from his story:

at quarter past four
on the clock, he was flung, down bag
and body both, into the deep snow

the creature made entreaties without words,
but his wild, sour moans, the man proclaimed, may
have been nothing but the beast begging to be left
alone to remain a mystery

one never solved,
kept alive around other’s fires,
by those who did not let them wane,
who fed  the blaze and kept it roaring,
to keep the beast at bay  

yet invisible, but alive another day
just beyond the fires' searching light
silent, eternal in the mythic night
Sasquatch, Sasquatch

I took the only seat left, beside a dude
with an afro ten inches tall, who bongo drummed
his knees, accompanying an invisible quartet

he claimed he wanted
to create, not re-late, so he slapped paint
on canvas, and blew on his horn

his woman wanted more, more
bread, more bed, more time to rap, more,
more, plural mores he said

but he wanted singular less
and told her it would be best
if she split--and she did

though on her way out the door of his crib
she kicked a wet canvas, leaving a stiletto print
on James Baldwin's nose

"cool cat must have had his nose broke
by some ***** before, " so he left her smudge
alone, and then he was alone

when he got off the bus
and told me to be cool, he handed me a smoke
I bummed a light from another hip cat

but he didn't have a story to tell
so I smoked my Winston solo, listening to the bus's hum
and distant muffled horns

Oakland, June 1969

kayaking, on the same lake
since college, two score before
by the tiny bay ice fishermen swore
was haunted--having lost one
of their own, only last winter

if the dead man's spirit lingered
he hadn't heard or seen it, and the bay,
though small, was deep, calm

he rowed daily to this big cove
a treasure trove of quiet and color
without a house or pier in sight

as the sun was sinking
into the lake one August eve
he heard a hissing from the thick
stands of pine

webbed feet, he did not imagine
could be as treacherous as talons
but the were, and the knobby beak
of this mad mute swan felt like pliers
when it yanked on his ear, ripping
nearly half of it off

it took but one sharp blow
from his oar to thwart the attack
and the giant bird disappeared
into the dusk

in its wake a pool of blood
and pain he had not felt since hot shrapnel
pierced his young shoulder
in that crazy Asian war

the battle lasted
but a few manic moments
as is the case with most wars of the flesh
though long enough to end his silent sojourns
on this still blue glass, now shattered
by flapping limbs of man and beast

treasure…
a
half
can
of hash
without
mold,
or
roaches

I didn't pick my name
anymore than I asked for all this rain
to fall on my streets

I thank the good Lord above
Amelia didn't live to see this--me
in this chair, a leg lost to
the sugar diabetes

her cat disappearing
in the night

the water's to my waist now,
but I ain't cold--just hungry
and dog tired

last night with Noah's flood
arisin' I could have sworn I saw
two water moccasins slithering
around my one good leg

I did prayin' a plenty
and didn't sleep a wink

dawn came quiet--guess
the neighbor's rooster run off
for high ground

if there is any left on God's green earth

my ears are goin'
but I know I hear an outboard

someone is coming to save me
to pull me from this room turned to toilet

someone

the sound of that motor's fading...
they'll be back

in the meantime, I'll keep
calling for that cat

there's high spots
where she could be

and I could swear I saw
a ray of sunshine through
those clouds

and when they come for me
I'll tell them my name

give them a good laugh

Dickinson, Texas, August 28, 2017

fishing the river is for old men,
solitary figures who saw their original sin
and now see darkness closing in
fishing is for old men, who can stand to watch
the leaves pass them by on the soft singing waters
and not wonder where they go, for they know,
it matters not if they make it to the black sea,
tarry a while on a quiet bank, or sink into the silt
fishing is for old men, who dream while awake
whose eyes no longer flutter but squint
in the sun’s naked white journey from shore to shore
when their line becomes taut, they know
now a slow dance, a chat will ensue, not a battle
they once felt compelled to fight, part of the larger war,
raging, raging against the night, for the fish…or
the fisherman, knows when the conversation ends
his line will again be loose, drifting on the currents
bound for the certainty of uncertainty
fishing is for old men
I am haunted by waters

fishing the river is for old men,
solitary figures who saw their original sin
and now see darkness closing in

for old men, who watch
the leaves pass on soft singing waters
to them, it matters not if they make it to the black sea,
tarry a while on a quiet bank,
or sink into the silt

for old men, who dream while awake
whose eyes no longer flutter but squint
in the sun’s naked white journey
from shore to shore

when their line becomes taut,  
a slow dance will ensue, not a battle in a larger war
they once felt compelled to fight--raging, raging against the night,
for fish and fisherman know, when the conversation ends the line  
will again be loose, drifting on currents, bound for the certainty
of uncertainty

fishing is for old men, I
am haunted by waters

fishing the river is for old men,
solitary figures who saw their original sin
and now see darkness closing in

for old men, who watch
the leaves pass on soft singing waters
to them, it matters not if they make it to the black sea,
tarry a while on a quiet bank,
or sink into the silt

for old men, who dream while awake
whose eyes no longer flutter but squint
in the sun’s naked white journey
from shore to shore

when their line becomes taut, they know now
a slow dance will ensue, not a battle in a war
they once felt compelled to fight--raging, raging against the night,

for the fish and fisherman know,
when the conversation ends, the line
will again be loose, drifting on currents,
bound for the certainty
of uncertainty

fishing the river is for old men
I am haunted by waters

** I am haunted by waters is the last line from Norman Maclean's story, A River Runs Through It, and the movie of the same title.

I began writing of thee, 63  
but after considerable effort and time
belched out only glib rhyme  

when I recalled my last walk,
however, it was in winter woods, only yesterday,
the frozen ground crunched under my ancient boots,
speaking to me in its own verse  

“move fast,
this white art won’t last,
make your tracks deep, soon
we’ll not make a peep”    

so I complied,
stomping on the frigid frost
shuffling with aging caution on thick ice  
watching my breath mist gray
the still air  

was such the entire walk
one foot after another, making tracks
lesser numbered beasts would sniff and see…  
fading remnants of the me    

then I saw you, crystalline knives  
hanging from brittle branches long ago grayed  
reflecting all that came within your sight  
in your solid time, dripping drops slowly,
silently, before freezing once again
in the approaching night

freeze like that self assured fool London gave us
in "To Build a Fire"

so do I avoid the wild Yukon, or learn to ignite kindling
before I succumb to the deep sleep?

maybe I just write a different tale

he wept, T.S. Eliot
for he lost a poem he penned
by hand--a piece that called itself
The Waste Land

in which he declared
April was the cruelest month
but he recalled little more, while scavenging
his memory for wily words

though I did not weep with him
I placed a light palm on his shoulder
to tell him I understood, for we all
lamented the loss of verse

phrases that came to us in dreams
lines that licked clean the inside of our skulls
words that repeated themselves, coming and going,
coming and going with each breath

I hope I wouldn't smash my thumb
or throw it

through the picture window, like my neighbor did,
just yesterday,

while I was mowing my grass
which is yet half high

because I had to watch while the police arrested
my hammer heaving pal

who hates his unfaithful wife, his yapping Chihuahua,
and his life;

the spouse and spunky canine
are just fine it seems,

fortunate there was glass to shatter
on a Saturday afternoon

I met the devil many times
didn't drink his beer for free (like Kris Kristofferson#)
or beat him in a fiddling duel (like Charlie Daniels##)
but he wasn't trying too hard to hide
or convince me he didn't reside
in all our hearts at one time or another

Instead, he allowed me to see his (and my) wicked ways
and make me afraid that at the end of my days
if I failed to follow a prescribed and sacred tradition
I would land in the ****** world of perdition

this loathsome chap serves a purpose indeed
and those who have the interminable need
pray fervently each and every day
hoping to keep this imp at bay

but without him and his miscreant acts
we would be stuck with unimaginable facts
like bad things happen without a reason
and nobody is guaranteed a winning season

So if you meet him on some dark and lonely path
(as I have many a time)
fear not you will incur his wrath
for without him there would be none to blame
and we alone would have to feel the shame
for all the woe that is the world

(#Kris Kristofferson wrote a song in which he states he didn't beat the devil, but he drank his beer for free--##Charlie Daniels had a tune where he has a fiddle duel with the devil--I believe Charlie wins in the song)

on a Texas hot day,
a thrifty bird of prey, was enjoying
a red repast

his plate, endless asphalt, his meal
entrails of a cur, whose flat fate was sealed
by black Firestone rubber

the manged mutt left to be lunch
for a ravenous buzzard, with beak bent,
pecking at his fine feast, until

my mindless Michelins
gobbled him up, faster than his greased wings
could flap for flight

well not really… though I told
every grinning green Catholic soul
at my school I did that and more

I did smell the wine on her breath
and watch her trip into the trailer  
her gown hitting the floor  
before she closed the door  
her body as white as the fake snow  
spitting onto the set, and
as cold perhaps

I was sixteen and she was fifty one  
this was my one and only, her last,  
flick, not fling, though I would have
cut off an arm for it to have been so  
not the arm she touched  
in our one immortal scene together…  
her electric hand,  
all the blond hairs on my forearm standing at attention  
me wondering if the camera caught
their helpless vertical veer  

it mattered not, most of the scene
landed not on the screen, but
the cutting room floor, my two lines slashed to one  
my 48 seconds with her shaved to 22

I did not cry when I heard she died,
twenty months later, but my lie seemed soiled  
once she was in the ground
I confessed to Father Ryan  
he was silent when
I asked what to tell  
the fools who believed  
the dying star lay with me  
simply because she said,  
“Call me Vivien, not Ms Leigh”

who taught children,
asked for nothing,
and died last night