I am God

Standing far away

the world looks good

shaved and showered

clean cut and blue

If you stand on a canyon’s edge

words escape you

the awesome and impotence

beyond your power

thus is the god of my soul

I am amazed at a million years

a million tears a million wars

still I stand as the Monarch

The Homecoming

The Homecoming

Black dress dark rose and tears

death is dark, black like tar

it is night without a moon

clouds on edge of exploding

is there a lesson in staring

at the waxed corpse arms crossed

children have nightmares

grandpa’s corpse doesn’t move to soothe

his grandchild’s request to play

dark suited men smile blankly

as a man in cloth repeats last week’s prayer

bless this man with his very own closet

bless his embalming and fine haircut

all dressed up to rot like his new neighbors

homecoming presents of carnations and queen’s lace

death imitates life without exchange of words

without the oohs and ahs once found in breathing.

The Fight in my Head

Mr. Blackbird on my shoulder whispering

bleak beak and portentous

warnings of a helpless life

I will not listen I will not give

cause for death’s celebration

I must win if I am to live another day

live and love painting rainbows

across the oven’s open mouth

Dachau must wait.


Nothing crystal in Altoona’s

railroad shops, I tried

to grow a flower there

but the bud blossomed inward

for no one’s eyes

an implosion of beauty.

Just now in afterthought

do I see the petals

and from whence they came?

Locomotives came and went

black dinosaurs feeding

on strength only men could give.

I’ve often wondered

about man’s power,

the power of rivets and hot flesh

wrapped in greasy denim

where flowers dare to grow.

The caustic bites of railroaders

exploding in sweat and fumes

wounding comrades

but for just a moment you see

in retrospect no time was given

for healing balms,

just time for slinging spit and tales

of whores and pimps of yesteryear.

So how this flower grew

I’ll never know except

perhaps its roots ran deeper

than dust and acid smoke

down deep where dinosaurs

could never reach.

A silent part of me where maybe

not even I could reach.



I’m not sure

is the dirt deranged

for parting its dry lips

and cracking its teeth

in ugly protest?


is hung silence

severed arteries

death camps

decomposed and quiet

amid the greenery

of Dachau.

Deranged is the man

with no conscience

beating and bruising

his wife

his children

deranged cannot rearrange.

Black Ants

If you think, if you dream, life is where you need to be.  We should all live in a no war zone.  There’s no room in the logical mind for killing, brutality, and butchery.  Open your mind.  Pry and squeeze or whatever way you must to open your brain to reason, to peace, and good Karma.


The belief that everything happens for a reason just might be wrong.  Perhaps some things happen serendipitously like walking into the street and being hit by a car, or walking into the street and not being hit by a car.  It’s not always guided by some finger appearing out of the sky and with a deep Charlton Heston voice saying, “Don’t walk into the street!”  Sometimes an ant is crushed inadvertently by the black heels of illogical thoughts.