Thursday, July 31, 2008


Valley village,
Six smoke spires.
Ruin guideposts.

One was family Rajek,
Noble leader.

Two was family Gunther,
The Hunter.

Three was Anja,
Mystic seer, apothecary.

Four was clan Breckze,
Farmers of the soil.

Five was clan Hrothgar,
Cloth and clothing artisans.

Six was the clan Grastle,
Cattle herders and goatmen.

(Four score hill huts,
Gone now, trace erased,
Owed life to this rubble.)

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Lost Daisies

One in a rock quarry pool in winter,
Another in a pond now covered by a highway,
(Not the water body the white thing came from.)
Also an orphan in a musty hot room upstairs.

One in a door held shut by a friend,
Another on a sleepingbaglandscaped parlor floor.
(It was rolled up and denied further camp breaks.)
Also a bloom dropped on Big Brother's record rack.

One in the Homesteads on a November day,
Another outside Allison Hall, in the parking area.
(Why did you wait till then to reveal yourself?)
Also a bud aborted at the end of a muted phone.

One in Athen's public housing projects,
Another inside a shed, hiding from truth in summer.
(Its Faulkner's fault for creating Caddy, I swear.)
Also the blossom lost when the grande dame fell.

One in a sick room, smelling of hushpuppies,
Another beside a lake formed by a land baron preacher.
(There was little joy abiding in/surrounding that fancy home.)
Also a bloomer in a trailer bedroom on Snake Pit Road.

There remains one flower still carried, not yet cast away.
Whether it may reach mighty Everest's summit,
Be pressed between the covers of a library tome,
Or merely dropped into a six foot plot remains unknown.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Tropical Dream

The lush foliage was everywhere at once
As a rhythm beckoned, then weaved forth.
The whole 1936 entourage strained to
Hear the nascent jungle song playing thru.

There was a classic elephant polka,
Then a merry, happy, parrot waltz,
Followed by interpretive opera by
The Hippopotamus Tabernacle Choir.

The Gorilla orchestra was readying to
Conclude the evening’s festivities with
A tribute to Mozart in monk e minor, when
The rapture of the wild occurred.

Our party of Baptists, Methodists, and
Church of _____ burst the backstage,
Offering paradise rides via our Browning
Rifles, glad to share the American Dream.

I woke, relieved/saddened in the knowledge
That modern man seldom needs to haunt the
Dark continent to commit such death atrocities.
(We have target schools and churches nearby.)

Monday, July 28, 2008


Giants were smart.
They could see further than the rest of us.
Solution? Build a treehouse if you're young,
Wring hands and mutter if oldness clouds eyes.

Platforms ten feet high
Rival Versailles, Taj Mahal, Parthenon,
Childhood imagination multiplied
Exponentially, reaching to the sky, understanding.

Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell supper and here I come.
Beanstalks stayed in the garden, but books came alive.
Reading, dreaming, thinking-free of the need to be jacked in.
Walk the first timeline on the shores of the undiscovered country.

Sunday, July 27, 2008


i think that


was necessary
but it


Three Flags

Kildare Island.
Fresh water, plenty of fruits and coconuts.
Weather beyond the dreams of meteorologists.
Discovered by Britain, France, and Portugal.
Shunned by all and marked 'off-limits' on international maps.

Centuries past new footprints in the white sands.
Birds know the secret but they aren't telling.
The cathedral ruins on Hill Montesquieu, gold reflections.
A retching bell toll when the south winds blow hard.
Man-o-wars lay lifeless off the coral reef.

Horse skeletons still crumpled beside the aqua verde lagoon.
Cave opening barricade of steel and stone still holds fast.
The seal of a queen and two kings clearly embossed upon the arch.
A warning in English, French, and Portuguese metal stamped-
"Imprisoned herein are the Children of Judas, be ye gone at once."

Saturday, July 26, 2008


Less magical than Houdini,
Yet relevant to us all.

The great process of furthering
Upright posture, and formulae mathematica.

Just one more day spent in our creation
Might have enabled true spiritual abilities.

Still, we can be content to have a stable and
Secure place for our suppers and remote controls to abide.

Plus, we can exhibit a passion in being able to multiply,
Recite pi to 16 decimal places, know the square root of two.

For all that, humanity can no more realize its inner abilities
Any more than a fish could be Vardaman's true mother.

The great compromise- plasma TVs, espresso love, and tons of mp3s.
Its impossible to learn to swim without getting in the water.

The Good Parking Lot Carnival

There are somethings you miss out on that others get to enjoy.
Then again, you see and do things that others don't get to.

The good thing about being young is the ability to enjoy without prejudice.
The bad thing about being young is the absence of the danger gene.

Carnival set up in an open lot becomes a community gathering.
People and metal conglomerations previously unimagined.

Cheap entertainment, traveling by moving and not moving.
Confidence in the belief that nothing bad could happen to steel.

Grown up worries about a drunk carny forgetting to tighten looseness.
Prisoners of our own minds, even lawyers end up in old folk's homes.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Be Careful When You Lay Down Spike Strips

Odysseus knew the secret, so did Buford Pusser.
Clyde Barrow never quite grasped the concept.
Captain Smith, of RMS Titanic, refused to have a clue.

The meta urgency which emotional situations construe
Give shallow brutes the false hope of forced truth. So
Tragically unsurprising when they are petard hoisted.

purgatory deposition #1958
"She was out of control, we had no choice but to lay down
Strips,"(bag her, beat her, drop her off at the funeral home
Where the crimes against nature originated before Rome.)

inner dialogue
"Here comes Fallon, I'd like to see her face when the tires blow.
Whoa, why did she cut this way, run Mushie, God.
Snared by our own trap, I'll take your payoff now Mushie."

the fall of man redux
Officer down, Mercedes recovered, Michelin's shredded.
"The good guys win again," boasts,
Sgt. Mush lives on in cinematic glory shortly before the V incision.

Moses knew the score, because Charlton Heston played him once.
The third tablet that broke back mountain had the universal warning-
"Soylent Green is people," wrongly recounted by the sage, overwhelmed,

As "Soylent Green is pork," hence full damnation of all knowledge, the
Junkie's inability to resist spike strip tripping to force the "right" outcome,
Even though each use poisons all of society, eating our young slowly, like acid.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Artificial Tree

Inside my open foyer, there stands a tree.
Never wants for water, that I can see.
Looks more like a dogwood, if you ask me.
A buzzing friend makes visits, a tiny bee.

Had it when I met dear Sally G,
Quiet, gray bark tower, demands no fee.
Only thing left here by ex Ms Lee,
Never did know why she quit our we,

Now’s the time to make a simple plea,
Without all that pomp and repartee,
If I ever seem too fancy free,
Don't let me rot in that complacency.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Man's Best Friends

Beren, Checkers/Patches.

Rover, Clover.

Duke, Alf.

Poca, Fluffy.

Pedro, Buster.

Trampas, Spike.

Merc, Lee Marvin.

Joe, Mike.

Emmie, a good snake dog.

The other's names washed away by tears and time.

You were all good dogs and I loved you.

Monday, July 21, 2008

Road Crosses

The side of the road
Serves as a backdrop
For things drivers want,
Oftentimes don't want.

There's litter, trash, waste.
Signs, signs, everywhere signs.
The lifeless, beloved pet.
Risk taking opossum, rabbit.

Walkers and occasional riders
Mounted upon manure belchers.
Broken down Ford, Chevy, Dodge,
Never a Mercedes, rarely a Honda.

Lost caps, we laugh inside at those,
Lost shoes, we laugh a bit less hearty,
Lost shirts, we wonder what lay beneath,
Lost shorts, perhaps a bad thing happened.

There is death by water,
Seldom marked by a buoy.
There is death by fire, and fiery things,
Never monumented, often graded over.

Nevertheless, the snatching away of souls,
Via the highways, the by ways,
Inspires the bereaved, or the pretenders,
To mark that death spot as a tragic waypoint,

The final destination of someone they
Loved, or should have loved better.
A shrine, now sharing time with road crews
Lunching and flower thieves smiling.

The time will be here soon that cemetery
Plots will have an information kiosk
Built into the headstone with an LCD that
Will give mourners a full biographical-

Favorite charity, pet's name, surviving
Family, all the isms the corpse enjoyed.
A USB port to download this Virtual Life,
Including GPS of death/spot/road/cross.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Ode to a Crack Pipe

It's fourteen o'clock,
Your stem still wet
From my kiss after break.

Am I your best owner?
I want to think so.
Can it still be special for you?

Worn oasis silhouette carved on
Your firm, ample bowl suggests
Knowledge faded over time.

I will preserve you,
As you preserve me,
Together we will co-exist, succeed.

Tony Montana was a democrat.
I won't machine gun my quorum.
He was weak, you/I are strong.

You smell lovely, still on my fingers.
Never interrupt my true desires,
You are all that I have become.

Someone got run over, they were careless.
I never ride a motorcycle, or eat shellfish.
I want to stay with you for a long time.

My last friend wanted to steal you from me.
That's why he eventually fell aside, no IDea.
I rent my friends now, Frankenstein made his.

Someday my ashes will be in you,
For the false loves of my life to inhale.
(I'm getting smaller, so I can fit there.)

I dreamed that you dreamed of me.
When the lighter hits you a certain way,
You smile shyly at me, the flame dancing.

Love is our special bond, our vial of truth.
I wonder why you didn't find your match
Sooner, but know you hate the weakness.

That girl you died with, what was her name again?
Alone in a parking lot, her lips blue like your lip.
Who left you there on the pavement, beside her car?

Why do I care? The police didn't, her "friends" didn't.
It must be you, you loved her, didn't you?
Is that her I taste when I taste you?

Is it my fault they didn't get that fingerprint
From the coworker that sold her the bad dope?
I wanted to be a hero, but had to get high first, was all.

I should leave you on her grave, but you need me.
I know that it would be a betrayal to our relationship,
So...I'll keep you, let the hollow girl stay earthbound.

That curious tattoo stamped on your shank,
Still causes me to wonder about my ex-dealer,
Considering that both of you were made in Columbia.

Finally, its my time to smoke you again.
My cares for the world and justice that matters
Disappear and fade, like trees in November.

Live in me, live with me, live for me.
Never leave me, even if I drop you and
Die in my car, alone in a parking lot.

Flower Ash

A peony for your thoughts.

Iris of the soul.

On the third day, he rose.

Hospital impatients.

Black-eyed Susan.

Her tulips.

Daisey Duke.

My sweet buttercup.

Esta's bluebonnet.

What a daylily.

Don't fear the snapdragon.

The USA was once a carnation.

The gentle breeze from baby's breath.

Popeye loved his Sweetpea.

Begonia, I donna wanna see youse again.

You were my morning glory.

Why did hollyhock her foxglove?

Was Heinrich from Austria? No, he's a geranium.

When a mermaid marries, they ring coral bells.

At insect communes they smoke butterfly weed.

I canna see why bee stings need bee balm.

Smokers feel red salvia for their great mistress, nicotina.

Lantana is not the capital of Montana, Helena.

Sorry, but Starkist prefers the more tender, petunias, Charlie.

Hosta la vista, goldenrod.

Pax Cheers

I liked the show because you liked it,
Never was interested in it until syndication
Brought it into the house every evening at
7:30, as regular as the moon phases.

Then Sam and Company became part of the
Ceremony of closing down the day, day by day.
Weekends marked by the absence of Diane, Woody.
Gap filled by special treats, conversations.

Baby Weekends were the mainstay, before
Your bed was your world, and afterwards.
Hush puppies barked signs of your stroke,
At the end of one of those joyful times we had.

Television became even more of a family member,
Never too tired, worried, afraid to talk, offer solace.
I should have done more, and now when I hear
"Where everybody knows your name," I shift.

Drift away, to the times when we could talk,
Be together and have the comfort of each other.
Now I know how much Coach was truly missed,
How hearing a TV show theme can bring tears.

There comes that day for each of us in our due time,
When something as passe as a television set is
Suddenly empowered and bloodlined akin to a
New, fervent cousin, resolved to keep us company.

When no else will offer aid or encouragement,
The cathode ray, or perhaps LCD veil perseveres.
When death has me but postpones taking his bounty,
Deferring to play a while, as a cat with her mouse,

My hope of redemption lies in a steadfast belief,
A personal conviction, that I will have a good show
To ferry me slowly across the river Styx, not the
Hell of a reality show in a nursing home.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Jungle Canopy Substituted for Home

We're the hollow men.
Humping the boonies.

No penicillin, morphine, clean water.
Lots of reefer. Lots of time.
No sign of Charlie, not yet.

Dawn patrol, three men, three joints.
Snakes, lizards, birds watch us toke, walk.
Napalm aroma carried on a tropic zephyr.

We shunt it out with MaryJane,
Go back to Bama, Georgia, Tennessee.
Dream of girls, parents, football Saturdays.

Three months left, three months too many.
Sleep shivers, too nervous to even pee straight.
Map lost again, but no sign of Charlie.

A clearing, contrails form three crosses overhead.
Wounded water buffalo staked in the glade center.
Huey sits down beside it, camera guy snapping.

He waves us over, we climb in, fly home.
My feet are warm, when did I get shot?
No sign of Charlie, Momma is on the porch.

Sawdust Circles

Strong people are often cut down
Similarly to the felling of a mighty oak.

The person remembered briefly
By the outline of their family, works.

The tree fleetingly marked by
A remaining sawdust circle.

Temporal imprints, shade givers,
Reconstructed, unrecognizable.

Some birds know the truth,
But they won't tell anyone else.

Dreams of virtual sheep,
People we know we have met before.

Places we know we have been before,
Familiar tree lines, rustlings.

Rotted stumps and jawless skulls
Continue the unending dialogue(time).

Yorick, reunited with Hamlet, joined by each
Casualty from this Battle of Evermore.

Here among us, beside us, whispering,
"There is no spoon, there is no spoon."

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Razor Magic

Did you say something?
I don’t here hear a sound.
Cold cuts.

Is this comfortable?
I thought so but no know.
Sublime subprime.

Loneliness a prime number?
The equation is duly dulled.
Quick counts.

Did you walk the narrow?
Red footprints, now embalmed emblems.
ConTENT CONtent.

When did the cold win?
In the quiet quiet night night.
Finish finished.

Oh! What couldn’t be,
That that that should have been.
Sewn grin gleaning glamour.

Sharp tongue carves thy the,
You disappear.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Thru a Mirror Darkly

When I was there I was here.
I asked you to speak and you said drive.
I drove and then you said to back-up
And park between the aisles.

The smiles all faded with the prices
That kept coming down to the point
That I asked you why bother steering them
In the first place and you said reverse.

Now the volume is equal to the torque
And I ask you again why it matters
And you say that it doesn’t have to
As long as the price is lower.

13 plus 13 plus 13 is where you won’t pass
Rev up to the red line, give it the gas
And parallel park next to the wall
Where the shelves shake but don’t fall.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008





Mark the
Tick the





Sunday, July 13, 2008

The Slipstream Guard

Hallucinations are taboo—but as dreams they can be interpreted and used– Eric Jenkins, 1976

Make way for the Lord!
God is coming thru!
Shouts the Black Man
While landscape fragments
Plop into a chasm.

I drove a truck drunk.

The festive buffet
Table centerpiece hovers—
My Mom’s present,
A tree with lit candles
Wrapped, levitating.

Girls throwing ball
Beside a pig pond(bog?)
Pigs feet periscopes
Aimlessly upside down,
Jealous puffer fish watch.

I drove a drunk truck.

Mini-Coopers traverse
The jigsaw lane gauntlet—
One car dangles/falls.
Run, help a tipping elder,
But she catches herself.

SWAT-like road crew
Adding chemicals to
Vertical pipes underground.
Steam contrails spew
Covering pig pond ripples.

I passed a Wal-Mart revival poster.

The Legend of Xan Francisco

Yellow man want to go home now,
No food here taste much so good.
This sun glows a different color,
Work so much more than he should.

Stay in same old block of city,
Forget when he last saw tree.
Wash wash clothes, and eat bad rice, he
Recall just what means—to be.

Americans, they all come round,
Want much money for unneed thing.
Xan, he have no way to pay, so,
His wife Ming saw took last spring.

Two child still grow back in China,
Keep wait for come over here.
Papers sign again, then pay again,
Want so more to see those dear.

Three month, six month, nine month,
Hear none more from Goverman.
Find the office, it now closed up
Child shout, “You, go back Japan!”

Yellow man, he now work more still,
Steam press hiss, it make him red.
Late at night Xan climb to roof, and
Sleep by cat on pitch tar bed.

New suit man he come to laundry,
Say “Must pay to work here now.”
Xan leave job, go to big Bay bridge,
Jumps back home with final bow.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Private Leaf's Field Commission During the Battle of the Somme

Newfoundland might as well be as far away as the moon,
Private Leaf mused in November 1916, his fifth and the
Battle Somme's final month of belligerent clashing in France.
Leaf, Cork, and Sgt. Heath, sole survivors of Cheshire Company.

"We have dawn patrol men, along with the South Africans lads,"
Heath whispered in the muck ridden trench. Leaf only heard
Whispers since July's seven day bombardment of 1.7 million shells,
All shouting at first, then diminishing till last day thump thumps.

Dawn drizzled gray blood landscapes in the men's war brains.
One hundred meter forward observation trench the goal,
Observe any enemy movements until relieved by evening squad.
This day an AEG bomber blocked them, forced a tank into their trench.

Sgt. Heath rallied his men to topside, running around the hopelessly
Mired tank crew, some cursing General Haig, others praying to the same
God as the German pilot, seeking Divine Guidance for the bomb drop.
The Cheshire's all stopped and drew down on the German pilot-BOOM.

Leaf was blown back to safety, shielded by Heath's limbless body.
Heroism hounds caught scent of a feel good story and the trenches
Were reminiscent of ant hill cross-sections of activity the next day.
General Haig never visited Somme, dispatched Aid-de-Camp Audrey.

Leaf, not bearing any wound other than a sore backside from his landing
On a rain tarp over the hospital trench section, gained Colonel rank,
Heath's candy bars and Cork's wine, and new orders from General Haig,
Directing him to the rear for logistics planning, the place for real heroes.

The Futility of Late Forgiveness

DNA tests clear the Ramseys,
Patsy dead several years already,
Father only living with the unsolved
Murder of his young daughter.

The dead don't seek or need
Forgiveness from the living.
They are beyond the realm of
Life's limiting emotions, feelings.

Absolution only helps the breathing.
Timing, the last unconquered manner.
Revile our fellow ho saps like sewage
To justify black hearts that beat savagely.

But when they pass, to whatever place
Death rattles rock cradles, oh poo poo-
The greatness they held in our visage
Becomes tattooed upon all Cain foreheads.

They dead don't accept forgiveness,
Nor do they offer it, they are dead, gone.
The living deserve the submission of the
Grief screamers rather than casket bodies.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

The Flemish Poet in Denmark

Circles of fire
Lower us, harsh shore.
“Why are we here?”
The muse nods east.

Rocky cliffs morph castle
Outline, a glow
In the tallest pinnacle,
Resembles fiery gold.

Gwen’s hair drapes against
The window light,
She remembers passion songs
Sung by lovers on sonnet beach.

Wailing wafts in sea breeze,
Songs of tempered temperament,
An essence presence comes,
Mists surrender, revealing Gwen.

Moon gate glows, she sits there, to
Hear her Flemish Poet recite anon.
She nods to her lover,
He sings for her.

Goddess of love,
Behold your servant.

Life waters flow true as

They near you, the source

Of all that is good, pure, and

Blessed by those residing forever

West, breathe peace with you, my love.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

Six Dogs on Wide Patrol Summer 2008

There they go,
Roaming the dark
Forests and fields
Before the crack of dawn.

A six pack of dogs,
Living their ancestry,
Under the cover of night,
Paws padding dewed grass.

Beren the Deaf leads,
Followed by Blackberry,
Then comes Bandit Keen Eye,
Rear guard Baby Blue, Blackie, Shy.

They roam youth perimeters forgotten,
Smelling, hearing, seeing that world.
Beyond the rooster farm, the quarry,
The cave, and the tree house ruins.

Screech owls watch them intently as
Wood sprites reveal fresh gossip,
"Another two leg was in trouble, but
Found his toddler way out of a cornfield."

"He who walks behind the rows
Took his disappointment out on
His snake slaves," the fairies merrily
Sing as they dance in a firefly circle.

Treats from beneath the toadstools
Are shared with the dog friends
As Blackberry tells a story about
A cat, a possum, and a scarecrow.

Lee dogs sense first light breaking,
Cue to begin the second half of the outing.
Beren nods and the rest fall in line,
Trotting leisurely back to the fat man's house.

Obituarist Illusions/Lies

Too many people die
Young, painful, lonely, hopeless.

They are the truths, survived by liars,
Living remnants afraid of their end time.

(Flourishes are added to death notices
With the judgment of a blind painter)

Went to be with Jesus,
Lost his brave struggle,
Taken by the angels,
Was called by the Lord,

These phrases might as well be from an opium dream,
Rather than accepted, expected, repeated until believed true,

Death takes the Field General with no more honor than the stray cat,
The murderer the same as the mistreated horse.
Glory lies in the life that was known, the spirit experienced,
Not a hoped for story ending of the Brothers Grimm.

Burn me in a ship like the Vikings of elder days, and spare me the
Details of my arrival in Valhalla that are unknown on this plane.

orphaned verses

Grief leads us to want to see the best, hope the best-even have a picture
In the paper beside the noble, eulogized person now serving as an ether bag.

A lost baby, missed more badly than words were created to express,
Remembered with a horrid picture of the very child squalling its eyes out...
The center does not hold.

Saturday, July 5, 2008

Lasting Impressions Through Times Good and Bad

Trouble builds like a snowball
With a swastika heart in winter,
Or an English charge against
Washington's army at Philadelphia.

What happens today makes the cycle,
Not last week, last year, last life.
Civilized hearts seek battlements
From failure of style over substance.

True champions seldom seek the
Glory earned by their good measures.
Save our nation, our selves, each
Generation, known yet unknown.

Deny these best the spoils of victors,
Remains our status quo gambit.
The honor lies in the service,
Not the server, soldier, or child.

How else could Ben Franklin not be
President of the United States, after
Gaining unlikely monarchy sponsors
For rebels to overthrow a monarchy?

What other explanation for Mel Brooks'
Absence in state governorship as
Reward for a willingness to show us
The trap of bigotry and racism?

Some heroes have to be assassinated,
While others are marginalized, diminished.
Still the spirit these men enable outshines
The evil that men do, or good they fail to do.

Friday, July 4, 2008


See changes, realize loss, 3am memories.
Changes starkly present after obit gander.
Realize urges to look and underdstand.
Loss nags in undefined template desire.
3am wake-up, know-don’t know.
Memories filter, visions render waking questions.

Smell brown skin against comfort sheets.
Brown eyes glistening from inner dreams
Skin bending aroma, earth spirits shower
Against soul canvas, balanced between chakras.
Comfort rings descend filling voids, wafting
Sheets of familiar scents transport time.

Hear sirens drawing thoughts, Warhol time.
Sirens harbor your message of love.
Drawing blood for ink, writing your
Thoughts over the bow of my evermore,
Warhol gives you fifteen minutes of
Time to sing a sea body electric.

Touch rainbows, feel colors, grab hues.
Rainbows of thoughts arching mind skies.
Feel strain-bars separate racing parallel
Colors, adjacent yet independent, ready to
Grab attention, give impressions, deftly shade
Hues of passion, pain, service, comfort.

Taste metal flavor dream cake candles.
Metal pieces, strong magic, coppery undiluted
Flavor of life, bell-shaped paperweight.
Dream flowing lava, pulse radial over
Cake walk promise, made for lighting
Candles beneath the death winds rage.

Feel waves carry thoughts home again.
Waves crest ideas, cover minds beach,
Carry the unbottled message sprites gliding
Thoughts across Adam’s easel. Return
Home. Welcome the tragic, create hope

Again, rebuild using twelve point verdana.

Thursday, July 3, 2008


Change of seasons, change of pace,
Knows a desire that resides far
From hurried moorings in place
To protect, yet prevent what we are.

A story is made present
Each new day, it starts then ends.
Distracted, we scarcely scent,
More than the punctuation trend.

Oracle of occasion –
Rent the trappings away from the drear
Comforts of disdain, and shun
Lens that see only glimmer.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

El Dorado Winds - revised

Dancing figures swirl above the sands as the moon winks her silvery eye among the doting clouds. The night is full of Mayan magic. A figure of sparkling circles is propped against a Joshua tree, savoring the enticement of his prickly spines.

She remembers leaving footprints on the bank after trembling in the rock spring, basking in shafts of sunlight all summer long, watching that man with the hungry eyes. He was looking for gold, didn’t consider her offering more than Mexican hospitality.

Family outcast, Esmeralda is the queen of these badlands where only stick cattle grow.
Blowing gusts from America carry songs and messages to her from that Promised Land.
She sleeps on a tor, atop the treasures the pale man sacrificed his family to search for.

The south wind whispers “It’s Mariah”; the two swirl, lovers in time now. No man understands the comfort which the wasteland offers those that linger in her recesses, or why a tornado visited Kansas on the day that Judy Garland died.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Harbinger of Truth

When light burns,
When owls know your name,
When sounds bleed and shriek,
Its time to know.

When moon stares,
When road grumbles,
When bridges take your picture,
Its time to know.

When concrete glows,
When cat's eyes blink,
When the refrigerator man dies,
Its time to know.

When the red fern pulses,
When the optimum period dots,
When the midi trumpet blows,
Its time to know.

When the waterfall steams,
When the fruit trees run away,
When the phone continuum ends,
Its time to know.

When the anthills purge,
When scrap metal prisons empty,
When its many beers past midnight,
It's time to know.