The One About Us Dancing

the locked box in your head
is colorless or rather
has no specific color

could be brown right now
might be red right now
is not white right now
is not blue or violet right now
but it might be
next time you look at it

you are fairly certain
you keep the key to the lock
for the box in a pocket
in your other coat or

it is always in
your other coat or pants

you know you must have it 
though you don’t recall 
ever holding it or even
seeing it

you have not
seen the contents in years
decades even 
but you know deep down
what is in there 

you can hear it
knocking at night
all night

sometimes all day too

as much as you would like that
to stop you know you would need
the key to open it so you could silence
the knocking and that is not possible
right now

so you shrug and turn away
and cope by tuning your life to the chaos
in the rhythm of the knocking
coming from inside 
the colorless
locked box

in your head

noticing as you do
how every one else around you
seems to be dancing as well
to something they are hearing 
that only they are hearing

A Corner Lot

A corner lot. An empty
television shell.  
A soaked mattress
that moves around the property
getting darker, more filthy,
yet stubbornly holding itself
intact. Bottles and cans,
trash bags like good intentions
left behind half filled, fast
food wrappers;

birds nonetheless,
leaves nonetheless, flowers 
nonetheless, the dark green shade
in the center nonetheless 
inviting anyone to walk in and stand
under the stressed trees,
a seldom accepted invitation
that nonetheless
makes a difference
to this city by being 
extended in spite of 
so much insult.

A Limb In The Street

A limb on the guardrail.
Appears to be a leg. We can’t
quite grasp what we see
and drive on wondering

until the evening paper
tells the tale of the man
whose homemade bomb went off
as he was lifting it from his trunk

to plant it next to the strip joint
where he’d been burned in a 
shady deal, maybe drug related,
I don’t recall, so long ago now;

that past has slipped all the way
into this present, as it always does.
Now all I have of that is that
I saw it, and others saw it;

the bumper resting upon the median strip,
smell of burning flesh seeping into
the car — now I understand how
I recognized that smell in New York

the minute it hit me, the roast sweetness
mingled with sickness, and so the past again
comes back to present itself like a limb
in the street, something I’m not sure

I’m better for knowing, not all wisdom’s
good wisdom, some of it never goes
back into the past. Who exactly
is better for having seen

a limb, a burned limb, in their street?


There’s a clock in my stomach
that demands I find happiness,

a ticking within
that is counting me down.

I try not to get less serious 
than the situation demands

but it seems that the situation demands
less than I’ve so far given.

If I were a lion, I could sleep 
until I figured it out,

then go hunting with my pride
and sing myself back to sleep after.

Happiness over there, and I’m 
staring at it from here. What’s wrong 

with all these pictures
that don’t have me in them?

If you’re with me on this, no matter
where else you are, go back to sleep.

We’ll meet in the dream space,
stalk the goal of our stars.

Happiness is the balance
of waking and dreaming.

Whose fault is it 
that I am suddenly smiling? 

I’m not looking
to blame anyone

when it’s there in front of me
in spite of all my work 
to forestall it, dammit. 

I Am Their Son

I come from a long line 
of people: some
undoubtedly saintly,
some no doubt abundantly evil;
others certainly
ordinary, full up with faults
and virtues and inconsistency.
I am their son. I carry all within.

I live half
shadowed; in the dark of me 
I lament the lack of light;
I turn to the bright side 
only to flee toward shade;

I am their son.

I have sipped true love
and tenderness
from a skull goblet,
crushed that cup
with a single simpering kiss

and scattered the shards
across seared fields; I come from
a warrior line, a massacre line;

I am their son.

Been drunk with joy while standing
outside in between lightning, hair stiff
on every square of my skin as I looked up
into the light and demanded it take me;
just one of a long suicidal line;

I am their son.

I come from a long line of people:
none have been openly magical,
none have floated away to heaven
from the dirt we are born on. None
sought manna, preferring to dig
drought gardens wherever they were
and scrape together a life.  I come from
a long line of plain and hard;
I see them whenever the mirror
decides to surprise me
with a real moment of reflection;  
see them all behind my drooping eyes
and roughed up skin, my crooked teeth,
my spark, my ash, my loss;
this trophy face is all them.

I am their son.

How To Spell American

Spell it with two guns
and a coat of whitewash.

Spell it with three picket fences
and a wolverine trapped
under a left thumbnail.
Spell it with seven dirty words
and rigor mortis laid thick
between bricks.

Spell it with fifty-seven apologies
flavored with forgetting,
sixty-three apologies
blind to remorse,
one hundred and eleven apologies
offered on a dagger’s tip.  

Spell it original thirteen,
broken five hundred.  Spell it
three-fifths, spell it six-nineteen.  
Spell it nine-eleven; spell it with
a cloud over it, a strained 
flag, a lowered boom.

Spell it with two more guns
and a Nagasaki blister.  Spell it
with moon rocks and cratered
cities, dead kids, dead eyes
dotted with good flowers. 

Spell it with a burr. Spell it
with flanks quivering.  Spell it 
with pink dawn over gray streets
and a boat swift-rocking 
down a snow fed river. 

How to spell American:

with a cauldron. A melting pot
if you prefer. A bullet mold,
a fireproof suffrage, a vote
for steam over simmer, 
a last summer of drowsing bees.

Spell it,
respell it,
spell it,
spell it again 

until anyone can pronounce it.

Young Slang

Neither do I young slang,
nor do I game. Not because
I am too old; I just know
and stick to my lane.

It is a path I own.
I will neither rise nor sink
beyond it. In there I still find
all the risk I ever did; more so,

now that I am farther along
than I ever believed I could go.
As though as it becomes
more rugged, more cliff-bound,

more broken, it becomes
more tailored to driving
my current steps and what
I need my stride to be.

As though my scant triumphs,
if you can call fighting
and scrambling for foothold
a series of triumphs,

have more and more to do
with what words I choose to
define, describe, honor 
my progress,

and I have too little time left
to reach back toward youth
and rob their tongues
to pad my own. 

I know my lane. I own 
my road. I do not need
young slang.  I do not 
game. I war. I climb. I am.

To Sit And Let Be

When my vision shakes
I can sit with it
until it settles. 

When my blood muddies
to sludge, I can sit with it
until it runs clear. But

when my mind crawls
under a dark stone, it drags me
toward suffocation.

I need to save myself
from my mind.  I need to 
find a place to sit without it,

let it go into whatever place
it needs to go, and watch it
sink or rise as it thinks best.

As for the heart, or what we call
by the name of heart, or soul —
I don’t know what that is, if I am

best called by that name,
or if it’s just another part of me
I need to sit with and let be.  

Meaning (Fragment)

An obvious answer
to the question of 
what it’s all about

is that there is no
except whatever
you give it

If you give it God
you get God
If you give it something
not-God then
you get not-God
You get what you put in

which is also 
a meaning
although the universe
is not here
simply to teach you

which is also
a meaning


Clear away
what has faded
from importance.

a borrowed comb, 
test it against your thin head.

Replace all
that is known of you
with a bomb.

Do you still matter?
Welcome to a world
of doubt.

this makes sense. Try to
drum up support for it,

phone your last friends,
mourn the busy signals
though they taste like

release. Is that rain?
Trot outside and sip.
It’s bitter.  What did you

expect? A promise,
on the record, of 
the stamp of approval?

Look at the wall outside,
sparkling wet. A fresco
of a World War II destroyer.

Painted rudely over
a corner of it, the name
“Susan.”  Do you know

a “Susan?”  You used to.
It’s not a sign, you decide,
but you smile.

Inside Voice

I’m here now.

You may not know me
or have ever noticed me
at all, as all I have is
my inside voice
to raise against
this world’s din, 

but I am here and 
this is now. I am saying
what’s true, even if
I am quiet in how
I bring it forward.  

When young, I was
made quiet. My tongue
was bound early
and well by
your custom and
your force:

use your inside voice,
your inside voice, your
inside voice

and later
I found myself
outside with
no voice for outside
as if it had been planned
that way. (It had been planned 
that way.) Those 
are supposed to be quiet,
supposed to keep silent…

But listen, listen:
I’m here

I’m here now with 
a voice inside doubling
my inside voice, swelling it
toward crescendo
though it’s still
recognizably mine
and I’m telling you:

I’m here now, 
no longer waiting
or holding back;
here now, outside
and speaking loud enough;
here now, hear now,
hear me now — because
I’m not going to 


The Mistake Artist

I’ve begun advertising myself on
classified message boards
as a mistake for hire:

call me,
for a small fee
I’ll screw up in your place
and take the blame
and the punishment.

My experience?
I’ve made a life from
being present at events
that shouldn’t have happened,
running the gamut
from spilled milk
to genocide, and
I’ve never cried
at a single one,

though I’ve always felt guilty, often
without a good reason for feeling that.

I draw the line
at subbing for you
on your most intimate errors,
those made from love
or its stand-ins, not from
fear or reticence
but because
I’m still no good
at those myself, though
I can provide referrals
if that’s your need (put simply,
I know a guy…)

Anything else, though —
lost data, financial ruin,
blunders of road
or home, social disasters
in person or on line,
evil political decisions,
callous disregard, neglect
leading to injuries physical
or spiritual — call.  I’ll step up

on what you won’t and take
every last bit of pain for you
so you can go on
your merrier way unencumbered
by consequence.

They say do what you love
and the money will follow,
but I’ve never believed that.
I did what I loved
and the money got swallowed.
So I struck on this: do what you’re good at,
what you’ve shown a talent for,
see what happens. It may be

the biggest mistake I’ve ever made
but if I don’t make it I’ll never know.

So call now.  Give me a sad story
to work with. Let’s make this happen.

Note: I require

payment up front. That’s
one mistake I won’t make


It’s Not The Heat

Humidity today 
is going to be
monstrous, says

the face on the early
weather report. 
She’s not to blame 
for that, although

she sounds a little 
guilty as she says it,
empathizing perhaps
with those of us
who are up
and watching her now,
giving the early warning
that it’s not going to get 
any better than this today,
or apparently for
the next few days; it’s like
she knows it’s going
to get to some of us 
more than others.

For example,

I’m broke as hell
right now
with a wonky car, 
waiting for cash so I can
fix it — so
I’m going to be
stuck in this apartment
during this swamp wave,
restricted to this hovel where
all the surfaces
in every room will soon be
sticky from the air;
I’ll be sticking myself to one room
running its inadequate AC
all day and night,
cranking up yet another bill
right when I can least afford it,
not that I can afford it
any better in the winter
when the gas bills go up
as high or higher than
the electric bills 
do in summer.

This is why
I like spring and fall:
the sense of relief they offer
when you’ve endured
those kinds of hardship

is as good as it gets
for some of us. Those are 
seasons not so much of hope
but of temporary satisfaction
at having ground out a victory
over something that has tried 
to break us and failed;

those few weeks of feeling 
like we dodged a monster
coming for us,
at least for a moment;

kept hold of roof and light,
managed hot and cold,
kept food on the table,
did it all for a few more months,
stuck around to see 

if the next forecast would be any kinder, 
to see if it would offer anything
we could cautiously call hope.

Ok…the new book is now available from the publisher…

“In The Embers” is now available for pre-order.  Proceeds to benefit suicide prevention efforts…

Here’s the link…Tired Hearts Press.

Thanks for your patience.

A Dog

I’ve woken up today
wondering why
I am not a dog, because

if I were a dog
I’d be a good one.
Especially if

I woke up as a dog with 
all my memories
of being human.

Damn, I’d say,
at last a chance 
to bite back or sleep

with a wiggling leg
or enjoy a fine scratch —
and a shortish lifespan

to boot, nothing like
these interminable
days as a man with all the

unnecessary expectations
and frowns from other men.
If I were a dog

I’d be cool with other dogs.
I might be neutered or left
intact — either way

I’d be fine.  I’d figure it out
or more likely would just
be a dog without figuring.

I figure too much as it is.
If I were to wake up a dog
I’d remember that,

and head right back into sleep
with all my legs spread wide
and my tongue out and 

it would be just fine. Sunshine
on my belly, and food in the bowl;
if I were a dog, I’d be just fine.


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