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Tuesday, May 28, 2013


"That you may retain your self-respect, it is better
to displease the people by doing what you know is right,
than to temporarily please them by doing what you know is wrong."
~ William J. H. Boetcker

Destruction 1969

No seat-belt.
No car-seat.
My grandfather’s green four door Ford.
I am not much wiser than five years old. My
nails dig into the leather of the stitched backseat.
The five of us struggle to
out-run a cloudy twister that  pirouettes and
segregates the flat land of the Midwest.
I watch my past turn black out the rear window 
with my sister.
On our knees we pray.
We speed to a cousin’s basement to surrender
to the howling
shivering words of the twirling wind.

We think—the word
       if --
will change
the wrong.

Behind me
the sun breaks through the clouds,
an apparition wakes the rosewood rosary
swaying from the review mirror.
I push fear from my face,
and watch the debris dance on the street.
The earth releases her heated yellow scent.
There is destruction and forlorn.
There is pain where change is torn.

Abolition 2013

An ordinary domesticated cat has a destined fate,
spinning into the tempest of the tornado.
I saw pictures in the newspaper of this pets’ demise.
On intention, feral could arrive, savage
to this plane, some say, there was so much rain
from that tornado.
Here on this planet
a forgotten fragrance, a constant insurrection ,
the temperature of the air
warms the wielded earth.

Her globe releases a scent we all know and
a carnal sound—implores power with
taught vibrato-laden strings--
black gravel flies, green branches break,
tin cans clank, scrap metal dances,
wind displaces a regalia of
broken surrendered homes.
Revolving lives roam
throughout history’s time.

We witness shredded color,
taste impressionistic flavor,
all discriminating to
a conscious cover
of humanities fate.

We feel the
the unsettled destiny--
the cat is black,
nobody wants it.
open mic tonight at - dverse

Saturday, May 18, 2013


"The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence. When our mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers." ~ Thich Nhat Hanh

Past Midnight

At five o’clock, violet layers
ascend my window; I am
addicted to the slow
revelatory letters arriving
miles from here.
The sun still sleeps.

Slowly, I hear the
scarlet howl of the
morning train--
nothing stops the saxophone
of the approaching wind.
Nothing stops

the sun from rising,
nothing stops
the surge of the distant
song from falling like
tears from a pining
metal flute singing
a river of woeful love.

Morning is isolated in one
picture frame,
a dewy epistle leads to
Jacobs ladder of love letters
streaking through
soulful clouds
on another solitary day.
Notes come in focus on
a rippling current of wind,
finger leaves of
green bamboo subtly
twitch, she gradually stirs
leaving me with a craving
for her imagined golden kiss.

Sunday, May 12, 2013


Dignity of Age

The unfolding bloom is
lost inside the purple bud where
a promise once rose from
inside the stem, as
roots grip the
darkness of the dirt--
inside of the core of the earth--
deep under the sun.

The face of this blossom--
bursting fragrance,
inner truth folded
from butterfly and bee
not seen. The sun’s mystery,
the glory of this flower
unfolds her elegance, a
birth of beauty,
an age of dignity.