You were such an angry dog
Nipping at my heels
Until we were alone
And you calmed down
And let me rub your belly.

As long as no one watched.

I don't know if your Mother Human
Named you after
A dead president
Or some Hole where Bikers gather
Roaring and biting
Like you...

I'd like to think
To believe
That she named you
After the misunderstood painter

Who, like you,
Expressed beauty
One had to
Really
Really
Look hard to see.

God?  The Hereafter?  Jury's still out on that one.
I haven't heard any Angels weeping,
Tears of Redemption seeping into my
Sidewalk life.

You!  With the Suit... and the briefcase filled with default...
Your shoelace cost more than my last dinner.
From one Sinner to another, Brother
Spare a dime?

Job?  Would you hire me?  All streetdirt and hungry thin?
Would you take me in, clean me up all nice
Let me use your Old Spice and your razor?
I thought not.

I used to be you, you know.  Once upon a time
I had everything a man could ask for
And then one day, ****! it all fell away.
Here we are.

Sir.  I'll be honest.  Just a dollar, eight bits. Sir
I promise not to waste your hard-stolen buck
I'll invest it in the local street-trade
Safe-and-sound.

I'll be around here for the next few days in case
You feel the need to support my lost cause.
I won't follow you down the street Mister...
Got no legs.

God?  God wasn't there when that bomb took my legs
While I was dancing for your freedom fight,
Your tax-dollars bleeding out in some swamp...
Here we are.

Hell.  Hell wasn't the ***** war I got sent to.
Hell was coming home to no home waiting.
Just this sidewalk life here on the corner.
There you go...

Wife?  Oh yes indeed I had a beautiful wife.
Past tense.  Her, my legs, ****! All up and gone
But you're still here listening to my tale.
Worth your time?
Got a dime?

I stand before you open now a bleak and hollow shell
A battered weary tattered piece of man
I've swallowed all my guilty pride and all my sins as well
I'll do my best to fix-up what I can
But I've had years to ***** things up and ***** them up again
And thus this may just take some extra time
So have a seat and while you wait there's magazines to read
I'll call you when your number's next in line.

We have surely lost this war
Yet we linger on
To gather what few wits remain
And fight another dark day

We are gentleman, at least,
Killing each other
Only in the hours
Before suppertime.

When the swollen sunlight
On the distant Standing Oaks
Mimics the blooded field below
We set down our arms.

One weary lad climbs to the top of the hill
(We take turns...)
And blows a Hollow Tattoo
Calling us all away from Death,
For a while at least.

Rafael was deaf.
Those colors were only
Depth shadows
He heard
When his brushes
Sang quietly
Every morning.

Caravaggio was mute.
And thus he
Could not
Sing along
With Rafael's brushes
On those
Oily mornings.

Funny how their paintings sing to us.

The title alone
Leaves me wondering.
Is this lunch?
A  kitchen faux pas?
Or simply a clever way
To teach a chicken
Gravity?

Dark is not the absence of light,
but the reflection
of those things
right
behind you, sneaking.