Little jackrabbit heart
Jackhammering at this brittle bone cage
Salty tears from all parts
Looking for answers on an unmarked page.

Beating back fear with a big stick
Timid, mouse voice tries to squeak
The words of a lioness. Oh why did you pick
The littlest songbird with her bound beak?

Little squirrel darts off, afraid.
After a struggle to stand on shaky legs,
The tiniest foal gave up and laid
In the soft hay. Sweet little dog begs

On the back porch ( liquid scared, scary eyes).
Let me into your heart, let me into your home!
Caged bird becomes freebird of open skies
Dipping low to touch the ocean's foam.

Imperfect world, purposeless person.
I retired to pursue perfection
learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants,
read every inch of English literature,

Scientific American and Foreign Affairs,
have an affair with an American.
Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars.
Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls.

Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share
with Jesus believers on talk radio shows
where we try to bring your lives into expressible states
before it’s too late and climate change inundates you.

Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear,
one day you’re feeling fine, the next not.
We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about
the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget

your face and previous accomplishments. The place
you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens)
and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful
certainty all is well, nothing special need be done.

Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky
and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos
and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers
jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly.

Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish.
Everything is as one would wish.
Numberless are the world's wonders
but none more wonderful than aliens.

There in the hole of a witness tree
He sits with teeth jackhammering
Chewing his regurgitated worries
Back down to swallowable size
His mind juggling coordinates
Of hickory, walnut, and acorn
Wearing one too many hats
To blend in with the autumn circus
Bushy tail pendulum
Synchronizing his thoughts:
Twenty paces south of the mailbox
Winter
All along the curb on elm street
Winter
Catty-corner to the sandbox
I didn’t bury enough
My mother was right about me
Will there be nuts in heaven?
Am I fit to enter
Winter?
No one understands the freeze
Or the way it syphons your dreams
No one really knows for certain
If they can trust the promise of Spring
These jitters become seizures
Of collateral faith
He is pressing his bones
To hold back the winter
Shaking like a reed in October’s gust
Fretting in the hollow of a tree

The break is long over.
I should be back in that

Hole, jackhammering my
Way around that broken

Pipe. But this butterfly
Landed upon the dust

And band-aids on my hand,
And neither of us

Wants to let
Go.

In the holy spot
with a sitting rock,
an oak. In back
yards, shagbark
hickory and maple.

Ants climb the rock.
August, birds
celebrate flowering
weeds, the seeds
of autumn to come.

I am here to name it
and know it and help it
to grow. These mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to.

The crows have been
in conference, again.
A jay, blue, pokes
a hole through reality.
I find sumacs fruiting

and the male *** organs
of the Queen Anne’s lace.
Dark-eyed juncos glean the lawn,
an occasional nuthatch
in the butternut.

I hear a pileated
woodpecker jackhammering
and my neighbor’s skill saw
chirring. Ants crawl
on connecting interlacing instructions.

I stand in the centre of the
construction site. hearing
drilling,
jackhammering,
shouting,
and filling the gaps between
all these sounds:

the consistent thump of a
boom blaster
spitting and jumping as if
asking everything to
dance, rave with it.

I say a prayer to Ronnie
James Dio, and contemplate
the thin, thin line between
dubstep, and sitting -mouth
wide open- under an angry, insane
dentist.

Sunday hung-over mornings and golden glares
avoiding the dumb-hound dogs and their disapproving stares,
a bedside table lined with more coke than wood
a night-time of regrets, of differences of whether you would or should -

beware the dumb-hound dawgs
chewing upon fingernails rotten and curled
exhaling noxious fumes and Badrock
making everything see sense in a senseless world

they stole your pitiful cranium and filled it full of idolisation
jackhammering from high to low, like station to ******* station -
yes it was good, full of *** and blissful ignorance
but the harsh light of day brings addictions ruthless persistence

not in the full throes of its torrid grasp
yet you look at the half empty packets and ask
should you carry on clean even though it stings
or should you strangle your strength and clip it's wings?

For drugs don't love you, it's a one way relationship that spits
they'll leave you emaciated, broken, just like your mind that splits and fits -

those pesky dumb-hound dogs you loved oh so much last night

in a few broken years time you'll wish you'd never ever set sight.

Old friend, I've just killed a man
painted my spirit ****** red, cut the cord now it's dead

Oh adios dear friends, it's the final half of the show
the Thin White Joke is here and now it's time to go

desperation lingers, unwanted and with regret
I'm sure with time I will forget
but I look at the flowers, unfeeling but born to be free
holding against the tide, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide
born just to be

what have I done, destroying my only ally
leaving this carapace wounded and fragile
I'm standing against the tide, simply
created not to live but to survive

what's the point in this world
born to suffer
with your ghastly grace
you smother;
homeless eat from bins
the wealthy flounder in their sins
morality bruised battered swollen
dwelling in the void where hope is woven

I cannot see what I cannot forget
a society sickened and upset
bouncing flouncing to the point of no return
in their graves the unholy turn

and turn -

and turn -

So do you think you can lean and spit in my eyes?
You think you can tarnish me with your pathetic lies?
Oh lady, sweet sweet lady -

I was born to be alive
I was born to hurt
I was born to sin and look up skirts
I'm a man, I'm a man
can't you see I'm on the edge
of psychopathic health and sweet nothingness

the birds are there to fly
tears made just to cry
one caring/hatred abomination
jackhammering from station to station

I care not what you think
nor what you say
infact I care not for you in any way -

the flowers were born uncaring and free
but now the world lags, cut
finally -
finally it no longer matters to me.

the sidewalk
jackhammering
blades slicing through cement
men's heads and shoulders bent
sparks pitching in the air
making holes and dents
a hundred and thirty decibels
so loud it breaks my spectacles

They’re tearing up
my green eyes
as the dust flies
the ground splits open
smoke billowing in clouds
that can’t be broken
I can’t swallow
I’m choking
men covered in dirt
sweat rolling off their shirt
ditch so deep
you can bury bodies half asleep