The other day,
I was walking down
the street.
I started thinking about
pork pie hats, and how I
would love to have one.
I went to the
Salvation Army store and
found a dark brown one.
I put it on, and walked out;
smooth as a puppy's belly,
slick as a butterfly's wings.
I loved that hat, I lost
it a couple of days later.
I lose everything I love:
My kids, my clothes, my jaded angel.
I've lost houses, wives, money, and cars.
What is it about love and loss that
stalk me like a hound dog?

I've lost hope and heart, and
even my mind at times.
I've lost friends galore.
My parents and two brothers are
gone.  I know if I love
something or someone, I will
lose it.
And those losses leave scars on
my soul that never goes away.
So the answer seems simple:
Love less,
yet, that is impossible with
this cursed poet's heart.

My derelict soul
rolls west, to under
the Benton Street Bridge.
The bridge is strange and
lonely and changed, with
Steve and Scott dead.
Both of them died on
the railroad tracks.
The ducks are still there,
under the Benton Street Bridge.
A feral calico cat stalks
them with death and
hunger in her eyes.
The river's up.
Fish jump where me
and Carl used to sit and
sing old Motown songs.
I'm in the nut ward for
the umpteenth time.
***** induced madness.
Pensive about life;
bereft of hope,
I wonder:
Am I just a lost duck?
Maybe I'll ask that
slender cat.

It doesn't seem like
Christmas.
Mom and Dad are gone,
the kids are grown; There's no
snow on the ground, and
I'm in the psych ward again.
There is a dead dog loneliness
about the place.
All the patients are asleep,
and it's too early to get
my medicine.
Coffee has replaced
***** in my diet, and
I feel like I'm in a
battle without a shield.
Even the pen I wield
isn't as sharp as it
used to be.

She left me like
Brutus left Caesar
like a shark attack.
My back was bent and
bleeding, and I was well
versed in delirium.

She had the electricity
shut off the day after
she abandoned me, and I drank
myself into a new oblivion.
There were kittens in
the wall--shadows tall and hot,
and I was well versed
in delirium.

I stole Four Locos' from
the convenience store, but
not enough to keep
the goblins at bay.
They chased me through
my nightmare--molested
me at dawn.
The elixir exorcised the monsters.
But I often misplaced it,
in the dryer or fireplace.
Meat began to rot in
the freezer, and I was
well versed in delirium.

My moon flowered brain thought
the cat tree was
a person.
I paced the floor and
talked to it; asked questions,
sought solace.
Degradation of the
mind reached critical mass.
And I landed in the
psych ward again.
The bats brought seizures,
and cheesecake, and yogurt
berry parfaits that were
to die for.
I was well versed in
delirium

You are like a mountain, not a
sublime snow-capped mountain in
Colorado, or like the Cerro Torre in
Argentina and Chili.
Not like
the Ama Dablam in Nepal.
But you seem like a
mountain nonetheless.
A mountain that obscures
the beauty of the
majestic sunrise,
and the grandeur of life.
A mountain that
smothers love and
everything glorious.
Maybe you aren't
a mountain at all.
Perhaps you're an
ant hill, dragging
dead souls into
your busy hole.
I climbed you, and
was so enamored with
your beauty, I missed
your charade and
masquerade.

Death is stalking me.
It watches me play cards,
smoke cigarettes, and
drink beer.
It took my parents, two
brothers, and all my friends.
It got Chris last week.
20 bottles of whiskey in
seven days, I suppose that
would **** anyone.
They found him on the
railroad tracks.
Death is stalking me.
I won't cheat it.
I won't escape it;
but before it gets me,
I bet I finish
this poem.

No commitment
no devotion.
I'm like a boat on the
ocean with you;
tossed and broken by
the waves of your emotions.
Your hurricane is dangerous.
I'm heading for dry land.