It’s empty again
I’ve wiggled the plug once more
the bottle has given wing
to blurry shadows of my life.
An unclear childhood mixed
with a manifold of colors
drizzling down my eyes
it’s hard not to know
not to wonder
who fathered this hapless being.
There is no doubt the old gray dog
visited the deep caverns of hunger
not wanting to be chastised by important humans
he held his head low and detached from the mean streets
as dogs sometimes do.
Old gray hid in orchards and thickets of prickly bush
just to escape his smell and the smell of his kind.
Isn’t it strange how we mimic sometimes
those so different than we, four legs
instead of two can run faster to ruination.
The young man lit another cigarette
staring sadly out his bedroom window.
He waited for a picture pretty girl.
she never showed.
Certain she said tonight my love,
knowing she said goodbye my love.
Ugly? No one argues
with old ones in the camp.
Of what use are we,
growing creases and fault lines?
Not forgotten, not forgiven,
not named, we stand
crooked and unformed before
young painted warriors
riding horses made of graphite.
We are your future ghosts.
Our wisdom will haunt you.
You will repeat us.
Warriors never remain warriors.
There is a melody
in my father’s ashes
high above the pines
a yellow bird sings
surely with his voice.
There is a beating
in my brother’s corpse
wood pecking in rhythmic time
drilling hollow maples
for he is one of them.
My uncle’s waves
are spidering the sands
ebbing their way
waxing and waning
back to his mother’s womb
and he is one of them.
I watch my hands
for a joyous day
when we shall join
in Nature’s nest
wind god bless them all.
In the End
In the end man became calloused
from walking the tightrope of existence
thinking he was right and no one else.
Thus God said it was good
and man took a woman by her hair
beating her until she spit children
bloodying her hope, breaking her spirit.
God said so be it
it is good.
Let us give praise to the heavens.
Spell My Life
Spell it out for me the quiet
in tombstone winds
sweat beads dribbling down
the squint of life
I am not who you think I am
not the good humor man
the loving guy with an erection
perpetually bent toward you.
Remember those long cold nights
white sheets creeping off our movements
nocturnal bluster beneath bare bones
breathing now beneath oak trees
your grave makes life gone in a wisp
spell it out for me the quiet
belief in something beyond the trees
beyond the final breath
spell it out in fiction tales of god
golden streets, golden rod and white lace
cover me now for I am the tombstone wind.