a vehicle of the family of man;
who say what cannot the mass.


mapmakers of the human psyche,
topographers of the human morass.
culling small order from the disarray,
trying to sow joy in infertile topsoil.
redolent the music on the mind's wind,
sacrificing sleep and self, for creation.
with all the monks within his head
praying for so many antithetic things,
notions and trinkets, truncated by dread,
oceans and skies and flutterby wings.
writing the songs of the solitary deaths
of the incomprehensible connections
missed by humankind's transient passing.

somewhere in Afghanistan,

at an unspecified location,

is a Special Ops soldier,

with a classified vocation.



and we'll never get to see,

time will never tell his tale,

the fate of his brothers and he,

scouted an untraveled trail.



never made extraction point,

and never did make it home;

now buried in a granite tomb

the one that's marked unknown . . .

this daily labyrinth again begins,

hot coffee and a titanium cigarette.

enduring memories of absent friends,

liquid sorrows and gaseous regret.


never far enough from the daily grind,

fondly reminiscing dark corners of mind.

gaps in my synapses with ghosts between,

chewing on matches and sipping gasoline.


got emotions to ride, and moods to bend,

all the corners turn 3 sheets to the wind.

flames from the gas seem to null the din,

so far from the daily labyrinth, I prescind.


words spawn tornadoes from test tubes,

psychedelic dreams morph from simple cubes.

read the thought conveyed, not the word,

ever cautious of whisperings unheard.


a free range wooly black sheep

living the nightmares of trouble deep.

oft to ride the daily labyrinth again

after leaving the confines of my pen.

Someone collect all the hatred,

and all the vehemence too.

then don't recycle or reciprocate it.

turn it all into something else,

rich and green and full of kindness.

distill it, remove the impurities,

coagulate it away from it's cold

tungsten tensile titanium.

some of us only have to try,

it can be done. Einstein said so;

and Mother Teresa and Gandhi,

and Martin Luther King Jr.

Someone collect all the hatred,

and all the vehemence too.

then don't recycle or reciprocate it.

turn it all into something else,



rich and green and full of kindness.

distill it, remove the impurities,

coagulate it away from it's cold

tungsten tensile titanium.

encase it in concrete and steel,

bury it with the radioactive waste.

let it lie for it's half life,

in over 40,000,000 tears.

Call me when the nukes fall,

Call me when the nukes fall.

Tell me what I should wear,

And how I should fix my hair.

Tell me why there's no air.

Call me when the nukes fall...

Or, don't call at all...

broken men fill their cracks with memories,
and forests of fitful dreams, only scenery.
Their temperament changed by the montage of time,
amid the accumulation of real and imagined crime.
finding pieces of their lives in old movies,
old cars.
hidden dreams in crown royal bags and
miracle whip jars.
old men have family taking, forever naps,
never forgotten...
and secrets buried deep within groom lake.

We sleep, but can never really find rest...

On a steamy island sprayed in melodic days.
Dancing in rhythm as the porpoise play.
Some hymn and some pray enchanting ways,
in the swim and sway of the melody of day.

Languishing in canopy of young vines rope,
as passionate couples intertwine at *****,
below the emerald silence of mountain *****,
heed the joyful herald of fountains of hope.

As cool and winding shady green rivers distill,
hear the tropic's aviary song, sweetest minstrel,
thrashing and dancing in seas azure blue crystal,
as the softly salted winds conjure in Ol' Mistral.

Drift away drinks of colored Caribbean ice,
air scented of cinnamon, mango and spice,
as we hymn and we pray enchanting ways,
in the swim and sway of the melody of day.