Woe my Country

                                             
Woe to the sunset and it's withering flame
To the cloaked sky and the yellow grass pleading,"rain."
Woe to rusty cars with busted out headlights 

stalking the road like pirate panthers. 
To the lonely dreamers idled by a cool breeze 

in this forsaken summer.

To the madmen who lose themselves in empty towns 

listening to the far off bark of a hound someone didn't feed today. 
Woe to the defunct American dream that deflated 

like a hot air balloon and fell here 

next to a Chevy that hasn't started since 82. 

To the broken down truck drivers 

who chanced leaving the interstate for a warm meal 

but ended up behind the circle k buying meth. 

Woe to the wishes that are blown by the wind to my doorstep 

to the poor souls who think I can help them.

Facilis Descensus Averno (the way to hell is easy)

I contemplated Responsibility

when the drunken sophomores pushed

the play structure into the bonfire

in the back field.

It was like being only a witness

to a siege, watching and wondering when

the walls would break.

Now the broken tower slumps sideways,

one foot in, with the swings resting

over the rising flames.

Rubber-black smoke drifts up

Stings the sky, and a senior shouts,

“pull it out,

                turn it the other way,

                                You idiots!”
He turns to me and points. Unhinged

by sobriety and displacement,

I am a virtuous goon in a field of delinquents.

I push through the bystanders and skunk

smog toward the defunct flames.

I grab for a still cold cedar beam,

root my feet into the ground

and pull, remember the origins

of my blood, sinew, and bone.

Titans and siege breakers together

We twist and push, tossing away the chains

of the singed and toxic swings.

I stand back to breath and think

out loud to no one, There is a right way

 to burn a city. I walk toward the dark

back porch of the house when I hear the sirens.

Nothing is left behind but a smoldering ruin

and hurriedly discarded bottles near the shed

on the neighbors side of the fence.

I think it was maybe the devil in me

that placed such an idea into the flock,

and I contemplate responsibility.

Cerulean Thoughts

My Tongue remembers
the taste of Blue glass
sipped in spring shadows.

In that Neighborhood,
the fourth move of seven,
we made swords out of sticks.

My friends and I got lost in the greenbelt
looking for newts
and maybe dragons.

Our parents worried red
when we return –after dusk
to shadowed cul-de-sacs.

In our fort near the creek,
we talked about girls,
and what we knew of being men.
           
In summer by meager flames,
I would tell spine-tingling ghost stories
that we were young enough to believe.

Tectonics shifted when I moved.
At ten, miles feel like light-years,too far.
Now, I wonder what kind of men they are.

I look away from the spirit bottle 
turned lapis lazuli by dust and time,
murmuring memories into my dark attic.

Breaking 101

Don’t tell me that I haven’t been where you are

Boo-hoo broken heart babble

We have all been there jackass

                                                Most of us

Stop complaining and do what We do

Go out

            Get drunk

                        Sleep around

No, fuck everything

                        Be a jackrabbit

Disappoint your friends

Your parents

Debase that last good part of you

Move twice

Wreck your car

            Yourself

Burn something (because it feels good)

Burn herbs and inhale them

When you’re up there

Tinkering in your head

Remember to tip toe

Be an exhibitionist

                        Scare people

 Scare yourself

Join the military

Deny when they ask if you inhaled (every time)

            Then keep lying

                        Make your friends lie

                        Remind them how truth hurts

Hurts you like when she didn’t love you back

Drink more; deny more (you don’t have a problem)

Turn out your guts in a bowl

            Drink until your face is numb

                        Until everything spins

                        Until you almost forget

Quit smoking

                    Pack your shit up

Pile what you can’t take somewhere dark

Hide your pain

                        Keep drinking

Fake smiles when you say goodbye

Pretend you’re happy to be leaving

            Train yourself to not care

Come back to me

                        Look me in the eyes

Tell me again I don’t know how it feels

            Like a good friend

I bear your bullshit

                        And love you more

                        When you hate yourself

           

Where the cliff ends

The waves rush forward in wide blooms Kicking upward white pollen.
The cold dark blue hurtling against the grainy flesh of earth.
How could such an aggressive presence look so inviting.
Even the more resistant of stones find themselves broken here.
At the shore. Two worlds meet.
Fate is speechless at the inevitability of it all.
We are all stuck here, now we decide-
To sink or swim

Untitled

It's running in mud
Talking like Elmer Fudd
brain is putty
in a rut and keep slipping
And tripping on the drip drops
The small tears of bullshit
Barriers that keep us under bullet
Sitting in fear at red light stops
In the dark untying knots and ripping
Scars from the knife cutts
Silenced by blood
It's being the last bullet, but being a dud.

E Pluribus Unum

E pluribus unum

Taxes piled up
Grateful patriots grinning
An illusion made solid in blind faith
The war doesn't touch our beaches
That storm is elsewhere but the blue angels still roar in our skies.
The news stations gleam freedom and happiness for all, but the streets tell a different story.
The unclothed, unfed, unworked masses stand in the street and cry out at injustice.
Their echo's silenced by the ever turning cog of industry.
Our boys retuned from the desert surcomb to a insatiable thirst and wake from tremorsus nightmares  in the sole comfort and silent regret that they defended freedom.
They are victims too.

Out of many one

What does it really mean ?
Are the wonders of the world not drenched with the blood of slaves ?
The staircases of kings are the backs of poupers.

Out of many people one may live happy
Out of many families one should be strong.
Out of many  colors one is found better
Out of many nations one remains guiltless
Out of many masses one will survive

We can make a better world
Out of many efforts
One creation
One thought
One dream

little thought

Sitting in the bliss of an endless smile
I exhale the untainted morning air
Listening to calm ballads from a black box glued to the table
Around me on all walls the framed images of my life,
the last two decades
and the sun of summer on a golden beaches.
 In this moment I'm just happy to be here, alive.
And love that what happens next is still a mystery.

A tale of Two travelers, and the storm they brought.

Disgraced swine of pure reason,
hast thou fallen downward into the slippery pit of doubt?
O dearest friend, let me recount for thee then
the tale of two travelers seeking shelter in the night.
Thousand doors knocked, thousand doors locked and lightning bolted
Yet one , though meager one hut  had received, lock-less and poor.
A feast fit for paupers and for kings presented therein,
bowl of endless wine ignored, small miracles unnoticed not long.
The travelers take truest form with blinding conviction
from mountaintop they cast the ocean, and the fair valley blooms into a swamp.
The generous couple, broken down by time, is granted a single wish,
and like that--
the wrath of one hand is calmed by the kindness of the other.
Where a simple shack of matted grass and sticks once stood
rooted pale marble column sprouts into  gilded temple.
This I remember clear when you seem to have forgot what you hold dear.
The joints of two trees  together entwined their stiffened fingers
given grace beyond death, a reward for simple hospitality.
Last words breathed between souls transfigured
"goodbye my. . ."
Indeed the Gods wrath is only equaled by their kindness.