happy New years eve.

Party at Wolf’s House.

It was a big thing around here.

Every September 23. Wolf would throw a party.

It usually started around eight in the evening,

And wind down around eight in the morning the next day.

Some years he went all out.

If it was a momentous year coming,

Other years it was just a huge pot luck dinner,

And the partakage came after.

I know,

It’s not really new year’s eve;

Albeit, It was for Wolf.

He explained it to me once.

I’m not going to get into all the philosophical,

Religiousical, historical, psychological, physical,

Insanitical parts of it,

You’ll have to let him explain.

I’m just going to tell you

 it’s his new year’s eve.

So as I sit here on the back porch.

Drinking a beer,

Knowing somewhere

Wolf is partying,

Cause tomorrow is his birthday.


to my little drummer girl,

she taught me sex wasn’t a violent thing.

but sweet and loving.

she came to my house

and said

‘someone needs to show you how to make love,

I’m in between boyfriends.

so I’ll come by for awhile and teach you.’

I was 19, 20, 21, don’t remember the age

I might’ve been 22

those years kind of go together for me.

it was a month maybe two

not sure

but I learned I have sex to a sixteenth beat.

I smile when I think about this.

then one day she came by

and told me she met someone

and yes

they married

and have kids now

but to her I have to say

thank you

it was one of the most sweetest things any person has done for me.

1996, Compassion Fatigue, Picasso's Incandescent Angel, Struck by Lightening, Syllable Tapestries

Shadow Boxer

The phone rings,
your name prints up,
black bold Chicago letters
accompanied by your number.

I’ve weighed the matter in ounces and grams,
pints and half pints,
through minutes, hours, months, years,
even a millennium
before my hand reached out to grip the phone;
securing the call, before the answering machine.

Via microwave and long optical fibers,
strung up on crucifixes which parallel the tar river
in rack and file.
Your voice prattles in my ear:
A trickle,
a fog which blanketed the slumbering fields,
crystals of light bouncing about the leaves;
then a coyote sticks his head out. Yaps.
You wanted me to see,
without comparison
without using the word karma or slut.

I tried.
I swore to myself,
I would see,
however, I failed.
My focus was too feeble.
You are restless.
You wanted to tell me
how you felt inside.

You wanted me to listen,
yet not be reminded of the dense fermentation
of inescapable memories which permeated the air.
You talk as if you cared.
I struggled.
I’ve listened close,
walking about the house
cradling the battered black cordless phone,
tightly between Ear and Collarbone.

What can I tell my bones?

Trying to become godesque,
is far from becoming god.

The frames of the film pass through the gate
transparent enough for the sun to peer through the clouds.
Don’t talk.
Keep your distance.
Don’t tell me you care.
Just let me close my eyes & sleep.
Please let me Dream.

I could only understand
by hoisting knives and tongs
establishing myself once more
in front of Stainless Steel,
Heat Lamps & Cutting-boards.
with a french stove burning my soul.

“Working makes you feel better.”
Replied Grandfather Chef,
as he deboned a Gini Hen with his machete.

The tomatoes reduced to paste upon roasting bones.
I pull ‘em out of the oven,
Plop ‘em in the stock pot.
Placing the roasting pans on the stove,
deglazing with red wine
and scrapping the fond off with a spatula
from the bottom of the pan.

The rain washed the air;
everything which had been mistakenly cast-off
now stained the ground bright lemon-pollen yellow.
I no longer grieve,…nor dream of the dead.
I observe the beef stock boiling,
contemplating how much seasoning
should impinge the soup once it had reduced.
However, when the time comes,
the words make their own way out.
They didn’t need my silly input.
I will not explain you away with a book,
as I have done before.
Salt to Pepper, Garlic to Basil,
over this damp grave,
I speak my last words of love.
and stir it all in the soup.

1996, High Flying Stowaway, songs


walking down the road
feeling mighty mean
got a switch blade knife
in my pocket you see
cut you mighty quick
cut you mighty clean
tried of hearing your lies
and a digging your holes

Rabbit’s got a fast jet-set life
BMW, credit card style
digging his hole
all he knows is take take take

It’s not my place
it’s not my way
It’s not my face
It’s not my problem

My head is a spinning
and holding my ground
walking down the street
going where I can’t be found
ain’t gonna sit
ain’t gonna dig
that troubling hole you should know

Turtle going mighty stoned
at least he knows which way he go
at least he’s not digging a hole


I’m a walking and a thinking
thinking about the day
never had a head on my shoulders anyway
you can’t hold it up
and don’t want it round

Little Peter’s running and he can’t be found
little bitty brain’s working over time
holding up my body and making me
whine whine whine


Little bitty rabbit is a digging mighty fast
putting himself away from ole coyote
The turtle keeps a going though mighty stoned
at least he’s not a digging a hole

Holding my head it’s getting mighty tired
no one can tell me where I’ve been
don’t even remember last night’s drunk.


Ole rabbit done dug his hole
and the turtle keeps moving
holding his head, looking kind of mean
knows he’s got some plan be seen

Then comes along the big bad wolf
digging a hole what does he see
rabbit stew
hum hum hum

2014, 2020, New Poems: workings and beginnings., POETRY

With a Pale Widow Smile.

When the black dress falls to the floor,
I can’t breathe.
Asleep, now?
-don’t act so surprised
A smile tenderly crosses her face;
the candle light flickers;
and stars form in her eyes.
There are words written on the wall
with a jumbo Sharpe.
‘Memories share themselves with you.’
My heart is miles away,
buried in a jar
in my sister’s backyard,
with bones and feathers,
and a Minnesota Red Pipestone pipe.
Got to remember to dig it up before,
she moves.
Dreams cross the room,
the memories seem so clear,
the evidence has been displayed and argued
in every poem.
-don’t get up
or go sentimentalist on me.
She said,
with a pale widow smile