soil softened by the touch of pelting rain
moving slowly to an unfortunate rhythm

i am sitting here and sitting here is killing me

mud running down the clear cut hillsides
unexpectedly overwhelming with the richness of earth and water

elemental in my present state

with the careening waves of slurry
voices ring out in haste as the children run

I am immutable as the song-less stones

shelters await them at the end of this long night
warm cots and a sense of displacement

lichen grows on me like a sylvan beard

in the end they will survive with something lasting
personally bearing the lessons of tragic events

immaculately singular in my permanence
I weather all of these storms
but not without trenchant scars to show for it

thank you for brett
his passing made a difference to me

Christ Mass 2007 Anno Domini

I should write tonight, but I do not feel it
I am always sad on Christmas Eve
Enshrouded in dirty rags
as I am
You would think I would rejoice
but I am not happy this time of year
even though the crisp air
and shallow but genuine good will
are a tonic to the spirit
the chalice of the soul
is crenelated and care worn
the palms of a million devotees
could not make a more sorrowful luster
than the patina adorning the ancient incorporeal skiff
I will someday pilot across the eternal sea
But a joy has been given to me
salvation has been given me
a giddy gracious gift to
me,
but I can't seem to shake this melancholy of the holy days
awash in love and grace
and I am still aware of my existetial singularity
thank God for His grace
Christ for His long suffering
the holy Spirit for His comforting
for I am in need of them all and all that they bear for me

things like other things

stone is a solicitation which plays at being
water a prosperity with a hidden warning
earth a firmament like civilization
air a spirit lead by dueling pressure
sun the most apt icon for God

the hero in a fig

a small pile of regrets
a nest for a skittish bird
fearful of failure
a bird
no bigger than a doubt
wishing for someone
to reveal
that Christlike moment
of raging fortune
where the inert chrysalis ruptures
revealing him
to be an eagle of terrible visage
talons poised over a moment
like the heart beat of history
lean essential and bare

A series of addicts

Their objects scattered
over
the work surface
Some are
useful
some
needful
Many are
refuse
Papers with the bears of facts
Tiny Frisbees
notes of monumental numerals
counting up to
90 hundred 50
Little containers of staples
the ghost of no state
where A picture of a girl
who is very young
much younger than her own
standing next to me
has grown And
what about a share
is getting too small
and that is set

and this may not be true for you

The winter is a season of death
that time to contemplate things that have ended
whether sloppy or neat
some things in the winter END
others are just buried by snow
sometimes to run from people in our lives
I've run from places
for me
and this may not be true for you
places hold a special hell
a spiritual energy that cannot be forgotten
nor damned by the flood of a thousand brick facades
one million softly lit coffee shops
cannot exercise the scars begotten in childhood
and better left forgotten
tied with ribbon and bow
and regifted to a generation far distant from here
vis a vie the richly saturated superfund site
sitting in the soil
an agony that would kill us
should we return

title not available.

There is nary a ghost
who could whisper a joy
greater than
the enjoyment of love

the ghost of a soldier
effaced by death

the woman in travail
of loss or rejection

an apparition
suicidal in failure

these ghosts know my joy
those prisoners who've tasted
the fresh fruit of freedom

Today in the sun
rays struck my ear
warm, oceanic waves
So welcome was the winter sun
as I had suffered much today
This thing this one thing
is mine to recall

The First Days of December

The first days of December
were plagued with the burdens of minutia
mechanisms failed
weather caused fatigue
the wearying onslaught of illness
a surgery looms ever present
stress strains the family closeness
the first days of december made me tired
but I persevered
with the toil of clock and mind and body
I ran up the mountain with the wind
pulling the forest apart around me
felt the freezing deluge on my skin for hours
I wore the earth like a second skin for days
And that whole time
I fought an insousient mechanism
and for the grace of God it is repaired
I visited Brett for a moment
wet and wanting of warmth
I hope he does not feel the same
In these first days of December

In the past
in my dreams
I dreamt of guns
that would not fire
I would pull back
on their triggers
but they would not fire
no matter how hard I
pulled them
I recently had a dream
I was fighting off panthers or jaguars
at a waterfront villa
my wife was trying o shoot one of the mad cats
but her gun would not fire
I was able to adjust the trigger
so the gun was again functional

I am going in soon
for shoulder surgery
I gave up martial arts after
I had a major dislocation
during a test in the dojo
I wonder if the two sets of dreams
are linked to this healing process

Hailey, my daughter
do not keep my name when you wed
it is a source of shame to me
let it die with me
I am trying my best to redeem my lineage
I hope you are whole and well
forever

Freedom Sadly Slips Away

Our freedom sadly slips away
slinking through sewers like an oft beaten
three legged dog
from this diminishing polity
our good character stollen by
falandering whoremongers
the least in our nation rule it
and inflate our fuel prices
and manipulate our retirement funds
and thus is squandered
our good reputation among our neigbors
our honor among our enemies
who are these scum
who steal our taxes and use them
to disrespect the traditions of our valorious democracy
who do these perverts serve
monsters who crush with velvet hands
and masticate with fangs dull with over use
the middle class is their food
the lower class their scape goat
and the upper class the chef to prepare
we, the supper of the ruling class
death to them all as they choke on my bones

Leaves Falling Prettily

I love you
there are few things in my life that really matter
they had an essential and permanent impact on me
a mothers love
a martial discipline
a lovers love
a daughters love, that is what you have given me
everything tender and open
revelatory and marvelous
a gift that can only be divine in nature

how many guns does it take for the cowboy to feel secure
all children impovershed
the remaining animals cloned and caged
the sky and asphalt the same color
titanium stock is depleted
as is the uranium in the shells
carbon fiber wrapped around wings to improve
the flight tragectory of the Predator drones

thousands of dead and no hope in sight

terrorism \\

a taxation of murder]]

am I still the bomb
waiting to explode all over this damned tyranny

or

am I just the lazy fallen angel who loved God
for a single perfect shining moment?

what is there going to be left for my daughter
will she need to know how to kill
will she be allowed to love
will I have to fight in China or Iran
I can kill you
it is in my heart to kill you
will that be my legacy to my family

or
will that be irrelevant soon

I doubt it
the hate and greed we bare as a horrible burden
across the barren straights of our bloody history

is genetic
and you can't cheat genes

By the way,
I purr like a brain damaged kitten
and stretch my haunches into her hands
even if she doesn't like the way I have worded this bit of sass

These Hands Caress Me

Her Hands Caress Me
When I am ill or distempered or amorous or
distant but wanting inclusion
these hands love me on days and nights when I need it
and on those when I am incautiously oblivious to it
altogether

There are cursed spots
where bad things happen in threes
one death
one injury
what next

I am safe here now tonight
but really tired after a long day
but I still feel the need to polish the idea
of the juxtaposition of American hunger
and tediously rocking one's self slowly to the grave
the desire to grab life so all fully as to engulf it with desire
the desire to allow the body the luxury of rest
to the point of loosing life through non-use
this is the American tableau
this is what we live as
and write about
and that is what we are
I need to call the gym tomorrow and downgrade my membership

charity to all

with the tragic droop of your eyes
you stare at your feet
to avoid the shame of their mocking eyes
slurring the bad name of your good character
you have lived in a car with your child
to avoid getting beaten tonight
you have sweat and shouted and wrestled
the overpowering feeling of despair
to keep from relapsing into the numbing arms of the gods of destruction
your hands are chapped and dry
your hair is a greying fright
and everyone seems to hate you
because you have the patina of use and dysfunction
you are rust in the shiny society

I hope you pity them
their perfect creaseless lives
like linen napkins too white
to ever be of use
they are egg shells cracking at the slightest touch
you have learned to be
a pain destroying spitfire of self actualization

yet you stare at your feet as you collect your welfare check
because of every single middle class family
clutching their purses and children
in reaction to your passing
reminding you that you are despised
and you find it puzzling and callow

why do these rude pampered pests
pay into the social welfare system
if they feel it only attracts the worst sort of scum
Didn't they give attention in school
to that blading liver spotted history teacher
when he said that the New Deal
was all about protecting each American
from life's thin ice
and temporary human frailty

Just remember that ignorance
of that absolute necessity
must be such a nice luxury

There is no Revolution

When I was young, I was poor,
in the fashion of the relative poverty of America
It taught me that stuff is desirable and unnecessary
As I rushed headlong through the halls of academia
I was happy to find a meritocracy that embraced me
I vowed that the power would be fought
and the cheap tangible toys of the world
would hold no sway over me
That was before I earned any real cash
before I was embroiled in the mundane melee of the work a day life
The revolution gets postponed as each one of us
gets diverted from the river of justice by prosperity
What a crazy ridiculous phrase, river of justice
But what other sort of water way should justice be,
but an open flow of momentum and clarity
Today I lived a bit,
and was bored,
aroused,
pensive,
and thoughtful (if only for a moment)
Tomorrow I will go to work
My daughter and wife will be covered by health insurance
Our rent for next month will be earned
I will put aside enough money for 1 week's groceries
Without cutting into the roughly two month's salary
in our a savings account
(set aside for emergencies)
My company will match 100% of my contribution to a 401K fund
for the day I am too broken to work,
when I am sitting back in my chair thinking this
"I wish I could have worked more
and loved life less."

Today Was A Dullard In Jeans

there is nothing to say of today
the malady of daily verse
things occurred and feelings were felt
I pondered my emotions
but it wasn't all that novel
I think about what I am missing
on a sunny fall day
injured and frustrated
wanting to exert myself
each day of Autumn sun
a lost opportunity dripping like gold onto the horizon

After Talking With Steve

The light filtered through the clouds as they moved so quickly across the sky. Steve had been in Veloce talking with friends about Brett and I had been looking in the window to see what there was to see. We talked for a while and he was and remains a wreck. I am doing ok, but I don't have to ride by Brett's roadside monument twice daily nor do I have to console his grieving widow-lover-woman. Be safe everyone

Death of a Cyclist

Brett was a good guy. I mean that in the formal sense of goodness. I
liked him a lot and I am really sad to hear of his violent death. I recall riding home
with him one evening after a training ride, talking about how he
should start a business based on the sole fact that artists are more
interesting to talk to at parties.The weather was a silk robe, it was
so comfortable. The sunset had mellowed to colors Brett could name
(Cadmium Orange, Yellow ochre, cobalt violet) ; the river was a peaceful
whisper.

tender redundant offset images

have you ever cut open a fig
or a pomegranate
the chambered beast of the vegital world?
they are so distinct in their look and texture
yet meaninglessly annoying to eat,
the singer with no sense of key nor tonality.
I am a singer like that
I am distinct and as such deserve adoration and glory
but I can not be born for long with out irritation.
I chafe in the tender spots that are not for lovers:
the arm pit,
behind the ear,
or the skin between the smallest toes.
these are the places I touch in each stranger as they pass me in conversation.
these are not glorious spots to touch,
and I am not thrilled with this marked distinction.
but to fight one's nature only brings a frustrating lack of identity,
a drain that is numbed by years of alcohol
and a tightly constrained character.
this is like swaddling the child too tightly
it will die in misery more profound than the cold from which you are protecting it,
and as such it is better to embrace the loose, cheap, woolen rag
that is my character than to die gentile, resentful, and well thought of.