Lost: Photograph of Mother and Her Young Son

It stuck to the bottom of my shoe

like a leaf on any November day

a week, maybe two, after a wind

wretch’d from a down belly funnel

ran off its tracks,  god-plowing miles

of field across twelve states, ripping

through lives built on wide-open prairies;

in the quiet ringing after calamity,

I tried to kick it off, then forgot.

Glued to the wet of the car mat,

a little face with a halo of brown curls

bundled in his young mother’s arms

sits in a car now upturned on Route 24,

dumb to the loss, this innocent find

all that is left of October’s calm.

Winter

I tried to stay awake

to watch the night

that comes early

move into a dawn

that arrives late,

but the cold came

and the covers

blanketed me

into a cozy

dream sleep.

Winter is not

meant to be

watched; rather,

it is found

in the drowsy

rhythms of hibernation.

To Me, He Came

He liked to cum.

Now, they all do,

oh, I know that,

but he did,  so

especially.

Like a cat, he

came to the door

with teeth clenching

delicacies

in gold boxes

of caramel

and chocolate

Belgian truffles,

or some rotten

piece of trash from

the back dumpster,

I didn’t mind.

I would gobble

it all up, so

satisfied that

to me, he came.

Good Grief

Stars are painted

tin foiled twinkle

that hang overhead

the Xmas tree lot

and trailer shed.

A bald bulb

strung across

the graveled path

is the only living

thing besides

the balsams and firs

cut months ago.

They’re not long

for this world

dropping needles

and losing sap

as they choke

automobile fumes

and the watch’s

cigarette smoke.

I look.

But good grief,

the loneliness

on the corner

of vacantcy

is more than

I can stand.

Black and Blue

My fingers hurt

for no reason

other than

they are

the last thing

that doesn’t hurt

on my body.

Head to toe

side to side

black and blue

hematoma.

When I met you,

I tripped up.

I fell down.

I hit my head.

Internal

hemorrhages

bleed out.

I close my

eyes.

Nothing good

survives.

It’s all dead.

All Hallow's Host

All souls race

slick black

rain leaved,

pavement toward

the door

I leave open.

Alone they find

dust piled

in corners

that tell

tall tales

of another haunt.

The sun’s been

gone now

for hours,

night’s nearly

grasped the

last of it.

I wait standing

to feel

their warmth

come ‘round

in circles

to finally settle.

Ever Green

Out of the wood

bucks exploded

flying across

the ancient path

that guided me

with seashells,

the pilgrim’s mark,

and Roman ruins.

Sweaty beasts

agily leaping

into the pine

their rush

spreading needles

across the path

drawing scent

out.

Breathful they

still the air

quiet captive.

Pine sweat.

Pine scent.

Pine sweet.

Our shoes

knock concrete

my love always

looking to

buy trinquets

to soothe

time not spent

on same road.

Frasier fir wax

lit, reminiscent

of the ever

green of Spain

timeless beat

of a tramp

toward sacred.

Like the beast

he will come

and go so fast

leaving  me

to conjure

his stillness.

Some Sister She

He married  his sister.

Happily ever for now.

She’s just   moved up   

from his past to    live,

hers is where she  left

it decades ago    when

she was just a       girl.

I have read.    Siblings

are true life    partners   

that connect us      our

collective     memories

 young innocent naive

untethered to    worlds

of   required  attention.

Some sister        she is

from a block he  knew

lost too    forked roads

boomeranged          to

life before      age hurt

oh, incestuous      rapt.

playpark of   standstill.

Pink Slip

He buys a round

of pink slips.

Worry not,

it won’t come

to you but

it will find

a throat

that will have

to chug it down.

First round’s on

he who hasn’t

a care in the world

bulldozing

knocking down

what’s real

to find what

he thinks is lost

in the past.

He’s a sad man

with a clown jig.

I cannot bear

witness.

I hold it.

I’m not pink

slipped through

the cracks.

Is it enough

for the sad man

to not know.

His is a slip

I don't envy.

Point of View

In slow seconds

of the day

I wander

to before.

But it does

no good

to look

back there.

I am third

person in

the fading

light.

It’s best

to come back

to where I

is found.

The Worm

My finger snakes across the table

to demonstrate the path

that a dissecting tool would take

to split the skin of a worm.

Its smooth, taut shape

I will slice and pin back,

careful not to cut too deeply

severing its ribless body in half.

Lowly invertebrate:

fish bait - earth composter

the all’s clear after rains -

neither sexed – both sexed

opened for discovery,

guts revealing aortic arches:

five loops carrying blood

to its five beating hearts.

Five hearts, four more

than human, to torment

and devour the one

so easily insinuated into.

My finger remembers

the smooth, sinuous skin 

that covers his cheek.

How did he work his way  

in and not fertilize?

Smoke In My Eyes

Cornea burn.

Corps burning.

Heart burnt.

The visor

not down

lets sun blaze

enzymes

that protect

blue eyes.

White  vision 

blind drive home.

Western-fried,

my core smolders:

smoke   no   flame.

Fans Don't Cool

Hot night I sit on sweat

breathing cigarette smoke

that wafts from the ground

floor like fog across rocks.

My mind is hot split in, too

often revisited complaints

of he who does not listen

to reason or facsimilic truth.

The whir of the fan dulls

all sound from the street.

I do not hear the smoker cough

up the years he drags out.

The air moved into the room

is wet and full of the still

atmosphere that preexists

the storm that is sure to come.

I wipe the moist pebbles

off my brow and wipe my leg.

I will surely die second hand

stuck to my fretted glow.

the box

An inheritance

arrived in a box,

thousands of letters

and photographs

too heavy to carry.

In his journal

I was in third person.

He drank

himself to death

found days after

his heart exploded.

Then,

I did not

warn him

of his indulgence

blind to influence

to make a difference.

We were young, love

came like quicksilver:

willful      fragile.

We spent time,

his other time

wasted.

She calls every night

I am the connection

to a dead son:

did the box arrive, dear?

I don’t pick up, how

she never called him.

Now,

he stands in the corner

watching my sleep

safe from his demons

I suspect.

revised from an earlier version

waco beach

on the shore

looking out,

summer shandies

in hand,

the world looks

finite.

beyond the waves

at the curve,

it seems to

just stop,

and my buddy

says so.

let there be

light comes

cautiously

creeping in

like my old

cat as he

raced up on …

something

lurking.

a quick move,

lightning speed,

a heart’s sigh,

then all shine.

cocked

sliding forward,

knees knocked out,

he pops his cock

to talk to me.

not warbling

morning songs

or squawking

warnings,

it settles silently

in its nest

protected by

a trouser’d arbor

to feather ruffle.

anesthesia

everyone said that I’d be out like a light,

switched off, wouldn’t remember nothing;

I looked forward to it having had a few thinks

on the mind that I’d soon like to forget,

or at least have a few hours respite from.

oh, but not so fast lady,

no narcotic can numb you.

the needle was real enough that stuck in

to push tranquilizer and opiate through;

I didn’t feel the doctor’s hand on my shank,

but I saw everything that he examined

magnified so he could navigate his instrument.

you’ll not be taken

by what they’ve got.

lying in an hour of incarcerated recovery

hearing every discharge, every snore,

tied to a machine in one or two ways,

my mind, lucid and fluid, felt focused

as it wandered to its current playlist.

stronger than unconsciousness,

it seems to be my drug.

it is not a spell of death-like trickery,

it doesn’t put me under or out,

it rises and falls and puzzles and claws

every bit of me ‘til nothin’ seems left,

then it starts all over from the start.

oh lady, who are you kidding?

you want all of the feelings,

you want to put your finger into

the middle where it hurts and poke.

what good is having felt so much,

to then feel nothing at all.

stray

a cat sits still

looking up

at the tree

undisturbed

by calls

signaling his

presence.

pesky wings,

out of stillness

claws will fly

silencing them.

sharp

dull knives

don’t cut.

dull knives

need sharpened.

skilled hands,

not mine,

were asked

for help.

my knives,

still dull,

can’t cut.

he asked,

I did.

he wanted,

I found.

he anything,

I jumped.

my knives,

still dull,

can’t cut.

dull knives,

cut me.

lost boy in the hood

his tears spilled

over the black top

in the cross walk

as cars moved on.

are you lost?

‘yesssssssss’

stopping to see

where he belonged,

his little shoulders

begged for comfort.

it’s ok.

we’ll find help.

she came over

the playground splittin'

‘you not gonna snatch

that boy, hear’

no, I’m not going

to take the boy.

‘he belongs to his

cousins who went

over there, I seen ‘em.’

where do you live?

‘over there at grandmas.

I can’t go there,

I be in trouble.’

‘he alright here.

I seen who he with.’

the cops pulled

over, watching me.

protecting me.

‘he alright here.

I seen who he with.’

sweet boy,

I should’ve

snatched you.

I saw how

you quaked

with fear

for living

in the hood.

I seen you.

I didn’t see

nothin’ else.