#providence
'expect the unexpected' good advise I read sometime somewhere
with this in mind I wait, expectantly
for the unexpected. (with any paranoia put to the sword with love)
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 6:19 AM UTC
To slide back in the mix—
I need one good hit,
a tip sheet from Bacchus.
a horse that smells
like fire and bourbon,
early lick in its veins,
more heart than
Joe Louis,
more grit than
LaMotta in a smoke-filled ring,
more power than Marciano.
I need the odds
blinking my way from the tote board,
eight to one or better,
and the racing gods
to glance down
through the Hollywood Park clouds
and wink.
Just six furlongs,
one round of thunder,
and then—
I’m back.
Back in the roar
of the track,
the clatter of hooves
and the smell of dirt,
degenerates and dwarves,
painted-up ******
hot dogs, spilled beer,
pick-up lines flying,
and the blazing neon,
neon lights bleeding
like a saxophone solo
out of a tavern door.
One twisted blessing,
one break,
one flash of luck,
snatched from the ******* gutters,
and I’m alive—back in it,
in the crowd, in the chaos and clamor,
in the smell of sweat and mustard,
with a scrape of discarded lottery tickets
and pennies from a Vons parking lot
that don’t belong to anyone
but me,
the taste of victory,
sweet and bitter,
on the roof of my mouth.
The track buzzes underfoot,
the horses’ hooves still ringing,
my dad’s gruff voice
and my little brother’s laugh
etched in the caverns of my mind,
and for one small, perfect home stretch,
I’m back in the game.
The private symphony of Providence
flowing through my veins,
every nerve pulsing, vivid,
and every shadow… grinning…
like it knows… the at-the-wire surge.
Jan 5
Jan 5, 2026 at 9:01 AM UTC
Though they ask you why you go
Though you question, too, yourself,
Though they wonder why your foe
Rests content in your ill health
You find peace, they know not why,
While they watch you face the breach
You feel joy, though you still cry,
As you pray with still soft speech
For these tears in sadness wept
Water ground that's dry with thirst
In the soil this sadness kept
Rouses life from what was cursed
Then you rise to find full shade
From a tree the tears did grow,
Turn to offer what God made
To the scorched who was your foe
And in silence both you sit
'Neath a tree not of your make
Mulling stories neither writ
Penned divine for both your sake.
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
The sacred second...
When the wind has caused, a champion's roar
To the eave's of love, hap and skew, in the eyes of a pout's demon
I see myself, with a reaching privilege, to these the soul soars
Martyrs and deliverance, in the field of guest's asking if worths fire
Is a fire of rolling imaginations, and the mythic patience's of come?
As the lucre of our stillness, waiting on winds our of denial...
Lips of choice, if not solace, that has history's shoulder, for won
Friends of paces, if not the autonomy of she's
With the wit we see, in the damning air, a confessions turn
Of suggestion into a lived some, a place for a question of me's...
Was a harrowed silence, ours, for shrewder eyes in the earn?
The sacred second, coming of age?
Run duty, to the simple embrace of the sun
We remember the hope, the sincerity of love's wager
It's very soul, on a chosen peace, found in the steps of a common one
We, never were...
A habitual concern of voice and flesh, that taken share of need
Has come to heed, the arduous as a way with essences fear
To make the statement of a day, meant for greatness in the eyes of never's reach?
Alone in the world, without a loving God?
Half and notion to loosen the curse, of our problem with paradise
Which to fore, and whether to war; is life a question of love's laud?
Found in the heart, where a mind never saved the wind, for a friend wiser...?
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
Goodbye Bottle Bandit
What a face she had . Shaped like a heart with a heart shaped mouth
with the most beautiful head of hair
you ever saw.
underneath it all a fragile, beautiful soul
She was funny
she was classy.
She was smart
She was the kind of woman who would force homemade cheesecake on you
and things us swamp Yankees had never heard of - like artichoke gnocchis
She was mine for a while,
or I was hers
you could never really own a girl like that.
And I know she loved me.
But Jim beam and jack Daniels were the real men in her life
Only now do I understand
Something I could never understand
Something nobody should understand
How a girl Buddy Cianci once said was the most beautiful girl in Providence
Died alone sitting upright on a couch.
One of her men in her hand.
There were men in the past who are used her and abused her
I don’t wish them ill
but I don’t wish them well
She once said that her mother was her only friend
I said “what about me?”
What about you? She said.
I’m your friend .
No, you’re my man .
I was proud to be .
Until those two southern boys edged me out.
Truth is I’ll never understand
Neither does her mother
I hope nobody understands .
I don’t wanna live in a world where people understand that kind of thing .
Bottle bandit .
My bottle bandit.
Jan 9, 2024
Jan 9, 2024 at 9:05 PM UTC
the old wives
say it must be
the left hind foot
of a rabbit
shot with a silver bullet
or not shot at all
simply captured
one way or another
ideally on the grave
of a criminal
the more wicked the person
the more potent the charm
with the foot harvested
while the poor creature
is still alive
it has to be done
in a cemetery
during the night
of a full
or new moon
though others say
it should be
a friday
a rainy friday
friday the thirteenth
if the foot is to become
one of those lucky ones
May 10, 2023
May 10, 2023 at 12:11 PM UTC
Saturn is in
line with
Venus tonight
but, nothing's easy
when you're down.
The clowns walk
around, dressed in
yellow; fast food smiles
and cheeseburger
souls, and nothings
easy when you're down.
The dancers with poles
and sadness, that Halloween,
fires burning, childhood
perfumed dreams,
kind of sadness fills the
navy blue night.
I can't find the North star,
and the jack-lanterns lie rotting
in the streets of Nebraska
and Kansas, and the candies
all gone, and the kids wait.
And I can't find
the deep blue shirt I bought
at Goodwill, and Billy Burroughs
is filled with worms and earth,
and Bukowski looks at Satan
and says, "what do you
mean, we're out of whiskey?"
I've never been much for the stars,
and family and Thanksgiving are
painfully overrated,
and nothing's easy when
you're down.
Nov 22, 2021
Nov 22, 2021 at 9:53 PM UTC
#
*Parading through these beautiful Hills..
--You, and your entourage of a mixture
of dog-like, well trained, egostrokes..
and also of men.. whose tattered boots
you are unworthy, of even tying..
Traipsing across the Badlands--
your long red hair, flowing..
giving off a stance, (as if)..
--You, and your entourage of a mixture
of dog-like, well trained, egostrokes..
and also of men.. in tattered boots
that you are unworthy, of even tying..
Raining down havoc, on the Beautiful People
simply for their having within them ;;
Faith:
In the Great Father.. and Substance of Spirit;
Neither of which your cowardly Egostroke
will ever garner, or ascertain..
But oh, you could steal..
And pilfer..
And destroy.
You will pay, oh General Bastard-boy
Your long, curly locks..
will take on a whole new color, red
There will be a gathering..
A showdown..
A Holy Reckoning--
In that Montana field, between the Hills
Along the Little Bighorn..
The River of all Beaten-Down one's, dreams*
#
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 7:51 PM UTC
Sometimes, time stands still…
And I see,
Behind her smile,
The smile of Another
.
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 9:26 AM UTC
how crazy was that night,
immense darkness, brightest light,
wildest man, wildest woman
became one decadent human,
halved souls, find each other,
I could have stopped there,
gave up worry, gave up fear,
held tightly with his strength,
heart surrended with intent,
take my breath away,
don't need to live another day,
I had found it all,
why go on?
If I died there in those strong arms, I would have died happy.
But then my most beloved, would not have achieved spectacular things,
our world flies on fragile, suspended, wings.
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 9:10 AM UTC
.
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre. So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
.
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 1:10 PM UTC
Endless bounty,
knows no yield;
in rotting garbage,
or fertile field.
Atop the hill,
daily bread is carved.
While down in the valley,
I wander and starve.
Taking shelter,
in the moors and heath.
I shiver and struggle,
to find comfort or sleep.
Dusk soon fades,
the sky jet-black and stark.
My bed of peat,
dew drops, and marsh.
Morning sun:
scorching and cruel.
I hope for a morsel,
some water or gruel.
I saunter weary,
eyes sunken and hollow.
The world is alive,
the birds chorus I follow.
Spared from the sun,
under a thicket or copse.
Sharp pangs of hunger
choke out all hope
Such a fortune given,
so ill a fate.
Forlorn and wretched,
is forever my state
With strength from the Heavens,
I crawl to your door.
You greet this sad beggar,
with contempt and scorn.
I ask for salvation,
eyes hopeful and glazed.
But I am given no shelter,
nor provision, or grace.
Cast out in the rain,
sodden and cold.
My limbs are weary,
My mind in tumult.
Providence! provide,
Heed my desperate prayer!
Above the stars shine,
my refugee from despair.
I await my death,
If God's grace would bestow;
but I awaken again,
with hunger in tow.
Again I venture,
to your door for fare.
But another has answered,
and pushes back my hair.
Face caked with dirt,
streaked with hot tears,
they run down my cheeks
like raindrops so clear.
My shawl drenched,
my garments of grime.
I'm given bread and milk,
a warm fire and wine.
I am thankful to them, and my Lord,
to have a bed, dry shoes,
fresh clothing, and chores.
New days are ahead!
Such joy and ardor.
No longer do I rest,
in the heath or the moor.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 9:52 AM UTC
The clouds may obscure,
But cannot vanish,
The Sun above
.
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 1:17 PM UTC
God chooses for His/Her work
those with (the most) shameful pasts,
falls
or black paint
on their soul “used-to-be-there”,
the ones we might call
the **** of the earth,
for once changed
and renewed
they know God’s omnipotence,
love,
greatness
the best
and can be the most surprising
of His/Her art
in the process of creating
the New Earth
already.
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 2:40 PM UTC
"isn't that something you
want?" she asked.
"no" i replied. "what i desire cannot be given. only by providence can that which is unattached be realized and only by letting go can it be integrated."
"well then...", she said with a smile,
"...perhaps it's time, hmmm?"
and at that she folded
in on herself
over and over
like complex origami
until she became
a butterfly.
then she fluttered
into my
chest and took
root in my heart
like a seed.
she grows there
now like a low moon
lover bathing in moonshine,
dripping in starlight,
changing in
the glow.
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 1:55 AM UTC
I saw the dawn
**** lonely
orphans,
while bats ate
butterflies,
cats killed sparrows
and hope flew
south for
the winter.
On my way
downtown,
I've seen the
dead through
windows at the
drycleaners, eating
hamburgers with
starched faces
The librarians,
dry and dusty,
pray for rain,
as hippos weep,
hyenas sigh,
and hope
flies south for
the winter.
I've seen the strange
hand of
circumstance
wear the jester's
hat.
I've seen destiny
angry turn her
back, while potential
is wasted on
the railroad tracks.
Yeah, hope flew
south for the
winter.
Feb 25, 2020
Feb 25, 2020 at 1:38 PM UTC
Providence the dreadful mystery;
The impeccable dignities and places
Sweep in spirals, from the sand;
that blowed And licked at your feet
The world Conceived before those hills
Foot-fast; Look, where He strove to get at.
Dec 26, 2019
Dec 26, 2019 at 12:57 AM UTC
I have no doubt that
everything happens for a reason
for all the grief and suffering
bliss and beauty may follow
not when you expect or need it
but when you appreciate
the other the most
B E ~ P A T I E N T
Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 9:07 PM UTC
Through the darkest night,
In the midst of ash
Ahead of its time –
Where the blackest black
Of filth and fire
Consume, devour – repeat…
A Light shines.
And while fools
Dance with death
To the tune of
An evil they call “good” –
Grinding their teeth
To curse and boast…
A Voice sings.
And as the earth groans –
Aching under the weight of
The birth of many children
Called “Destruction,”
Who've grown to eat and ****
Their own…
A King reigns.
.
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 12:15 PM UTC
as the birds fly south for winter
the excavators come home to roost.
they bow their heads to the ground,
wishing for wings to tuck their necks under.
everyone guards piles of salt and twisted metal
brushed cold and golden by the sun.
a boat lifts its arms to the sky,
all rattling chains and gentle, grasping claws.
gentlemen, best prices for scrap here:
all metals, all amounts.
the highway crawls home.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 9:29 PM UTC
Those green pastures that go on forever,
Seemingly endless space for life to grow,
Expansive home for life howsoever,
Every variety that God could know.
To lie in company of blades of grass,
Cool and light like the clouds above my head,
Sun from horizon to horizon pass,
Asleep in this green pasture’s sacred bed.
No sense of time as now my senses dull,
I barely notice a faint and distant clap,
I dream a dream that all the clouds are full,
As stinging raindrops wake me from my nap.
The sun has gone but lightning lights the sky,
But even soaked in mud I feel at peace,
With body wet but soul that’s safe and dry,
One cannot live in fear of God’s caprice.
This green pasture that goes on without end,
Where Heaven plays and life has no defense,
I’ll live in faith and to God’s will I’ll bend,
At peace exposed to Heaven’s providence.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
Tasked today with thorning
thistled favor over reigns,
we drained the shot that scored
the weak on board
and shattered crystal pain.
Who drops us off white rockets
pulled from earth like swede from stone
to jet to planes above?
The fuel we love, abundant every turn:
advice in our good ands. Disseminating
buts like rice, exceptions
unto every goal,
obscuring each clear picture
in the way. Re-light
and curse the days
you fight it, pining, elbows up,
some cheap romance whose pages
wear you thin. You render
heartache on the blow -
skid-crushing, woeful throes
of counterpoint dispatched to swallow
lightness from the shore.
Wise up
and ask for more.
Be stronger - shed your brightness
on the bay. Delay those saturated
hoodwinks. Gamble on discreetless
balconies where broke your fall
from order. Signal wholeness
of your cause, re-bolster lack of laws
with blinding arrows to your neck -
revise, rehone the wherewithal
to do what’s due: respect.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 12:36 AM UTC
(Sonnet)
Good deer are gracing the trees,
Take communion in handed leaf,
Touch the soils with loving hoof,
In the tabernacles of the wood.
The owl cries for all souls eternal,
Deep in the shrouds of the vernal
That drape the newly born dying,
Beneath the solemn owls' crying.
And songbird has a psalm unread,
A parable in the twining branches,
Gifts of song foist lanyards of crop
Dear in old forest, this offered sup.
As blood seeping deep in the wood,
Sky washes away those who stood.
.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
(Sonnet)
Above, this morning, on another plain
Over bogland and tundra rising snows drift
Darting birds white, unlike you, they strain
Fleeing on wing to save some earthen kin.
Blood runs as they race, your shadows cast,
Their hearts beating to some distant dawn.
Under the pale sun, white burns on their backs,
Daylight sings, their ears are horned, little faun
White as snow, the prince of the sky is blessed
On high by drops of rain, and dusted freeze,
Then blood and breast, sacrament and eucharist,
Their tale ends in glory, risen as a breeze.
.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC