I long for
the sunburnt days,
freckled dreams and
scabbed up knees.
Ahh
to be a boy in
summer again.
My baseball and  
**** dog close at
hand.
Fishing pole and
lily pad ponds.
I caught frogs and
tortoises.
The budding poet in
me saw sunsets on
the underside of
the shells.

The daylight, and
evening seemed to
last forever.
And when I finally
went to bed,
The buzz of the
cicadas, and the
symphony of the
crickets were my
soundtrack to youth.
I dreamed in green.

I was in 4th grade at
Hubble Elementary.
Eddie Van Patten was
in 6th grade.
He was a big kid, even
for a 12-year-old.
He had a bowl cut,
and freckles.
Eddie was a  
troublemaker,
but he never  
bothered me.

One bitter cold
January afternoon,
he slipped on a  
patch of ice,
hit the back of
his head and died.
Mr. Maguire, the
gym coach said,
It was the occipital bone.
We were all told
to feel the back of  
our heads.
The coaches' eyes
didn't have that
sparkle anymore.

He said,
“You have to  
learn how to
fall, always protect
the back of your head.
If you don’t land right,
It can **** you.”

For the next
week, we practiced
tumbling and
learning to fall the
right way.
I was sad for
Eddie, but I wanted
to play dodgeball.

I visit the dead at
the grocery store,
library,
on the phone
and
in my e-mails.
I watch them  
on TV,
at the beach,
in my dreams
and in the eyes
of crows.

They wear
colorful clothes, and
always want to
sell me on their
way of life.
No thanks, I’m  
calling the whole  
thing off.
I’m going fishing.

My cat’s timing is
impeccable.
I’ve been slothful
with writing lately,
and the cats play
the antagonist.
I sit in my
favorite chair and
put some Vivaldi on.  
I’m determined to write.

As soon as I pick up
my notebook and pen,
the black one with
the white spot on
her neck jumps on  
my lap and bites at
the moving ink pen.

Her sister chases
imaginary bugs on
the coffee table, and
knocks over a slim
glass of water.
She runs away.

The newest edition to
my cat family is a
large tiger stripped
female that is
currently trying to
avoid the puddle, while
she bats at the
leaves of the fig tree.

I bet Bukowski
didn't have to
deal with this ****.
On second thought,
he probably did.

The poor thing got
lost in the escape.
And she was still hungover
from the childhood terror.
Her personality was
ruined--redolent with
the first flowers of
madness.

She made a pretend
world, full of delusions.
A house of cards that
was laden with
lunacy, her insanity
became safe and dependent
on her never taking
responsibility for her
actions--she was a
pawn for the adage,
Hurt people Hurt people,
like Blanche from
A Streetcar Named Desire,
and
Don Quixote,
Her world crumbled and she climbed
into the abyss,
when she looked
deeply into the
mirror of reality.

When does the
champ know that  
he doesn’t have  
It anymore?
Is it after that
first loss to a
*** he should  
have knocked out in
the second round?
Is it when his body
doesn't do what
his mind tells it
to do?  

His punches are
slow.
His legs are
weak.
He once was one
of the greatest.
Iron Mike, they
called him.

He loses to an
overhyped cute
boy with little skills,  
and blonde curls.
It was brutal to watch.

He was king of
the jungle in those
early Brooklyn days.
Old lions don’t just
wander off and die
alone.  
They get killed and
eaten by  
younger lions.

After this charade,
I hope the champ
hangs up his
gloves for good.

It’s hot in
Missouri.
The summer  
sun looks down  
jealous of
youth playing in
the fields,
carefree and
careless.
Kids drown
muskrats with
rocks in the
stream, and have
funerals for flies.
Death watches, and
waits for
winter to come.