On this blue sky day the clouds are painting poetry. Is the wind the author, I wonder? Long lines wisp straight across the horizon, could be “projective verse” far as the breath will go. The short puffs are Williams or Cummings descending down toward earth, its vast girth the open auditorium where this all plays…

An Observation, Not a Condemned Nation. This from the Eyes of an Army Veteran… Red is the Blood we shed. All men and women Limbs on the Floor. No matter what Color or Race.. White is the Corporate mans’ Financial Gains, Boardroom Games. Filled with the poor Mans’ Pain. Oil prices higher, Soldiers Under Fire……

Hollywood sold me a story When I was a young Boy. A tale of Family, Caring, Love and Sharing. What’s that Morning Sound? As I yawn from My bed? The running of little feet but not of Playful Children so Sweet. It’s the Pitter-patter of furry rats looking for a morning treat, Maybe a bite…

1. The vertical and the horizontal extend out to plain forever. The trees are dripping leavings over unknown lives. Collateral outfits crowd the gutters. Last night’s bar bottles glisten in the street. Coarse recourse & cheap sh*t talk scatters the mom & pop grocery dirge. We’re smoking & looking for options, glassy-eyed, sun-blind, off course…

When the space arrived at the end when all else that day was done there was nothing left to do about it. The chatter, packing and unpacking of the business day, banter of a shallow sort, the very pretend was the reality that capitalism brings. Those left quietly to their own just desserts were holding…

For Kay Ryan The table is always empty in their house, where neatness is kin to religion. The idea of the horizontal surface’s power to hold disparate refuse of the day never flowers in their room where perfection in appearance becomes a tomb.

We are so many different places part of the time. Different places define how we act, present ourselves part of the time. We are so many turning about to hide the others we show to no one. I hold the hand mirror behind my head to show my leaving the others. Alone with no one…

I am not interested in how you put together your life, only that you were betrothed to me in your conglomerateness. Paging back through the bits that made sense or were interesting holds us enthralled like watching the life of the aquarium in the city in the dark. Pausing to catch your breath as you…

Where are all the lotus farmers off to Now the hubcap salesmen have up and left? I come from a long line of coal loaders Down by the rusted tracks of the B & O. How the winds carried away all voices That long enough ago is cannon fodder For us all left holding the…

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