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The night air petrified about me,

the cool breeze

through the weave of my clothes

stiffen.

So many things to figure out;

so many things to do;

as a young man I’d get so frustrated,

when I peered back at my accomplishments,

I felt like I’d achieved nothing.

Nothing to say

“Look, this is what I am.”

But I was mistaken.

If you study it in more detail

you’ll notice

the movements.

the fluttering of wings

climbing into the sky.

Look at the moon,

wasn’t it full last night;

where it is now?

Are you sure it had ever been full?

“Oh yes,” Snaps Spider, “I felt it within me.

It’s not a matter of observation;

this is soul stuff.”

The elders came out from the trees

dancing’n’singing;

then, a young man stepped forward,

smiled grimly.

“Why , if we’re to call things by their right names,

we might as well state

-the Romans are the champions of our Law,

yet aren’t they our enemies,

whom are inside the very land of our ancestors,

inside the very mountain that’s sacred?”

“Old habits are hard to break;” the elders sang.

“newer ones are harder to form

take shape.”

And Spider replied, “Behold children,

these are the results of inaction;

and in that inaction

movements dim

and are without resolution.

Nevertheless,

Sun will forever brighten the morning.

It’s only your perception of it

that makes it appear dim and out of reach.

I shook my head

and the voices became maracas

being shook vigorously to the beat of a mariachi band,

until they burst open

and the seeds scattered across the ground.

Now some of those seeds landed on rocks

an’ did not have a chance to grow

because the animals came an’ ate them;

while some of the seeds landed among weeds,

however the weeds kept them stoned,

so they had no energy to grow;

and than some of the seeds

landed onto a freshly plowed fertilized field

an’ shot up baring fruit:

hundreds of maracas sounding off in the winter wind,

flinging their seeds everywhere.

The Half Poems

1

I live in a house that is half-done?

Plywood floors, glued and placed together,

made to stay with nail guns.

Empty shells and miss-fired nails settle about.

My whole life is packed away in tomato boxes and milk crates,

climbing the four plastered walls of my room

and two storage bens.

The pieces I do pull out, clutter the floor,

to sleep with the dogs, dirt and fleas.

2

I recline in my half-made bed

half-dressed,

gazing about the half-lit room

which bicircumvents me.

I perceive things in halves:

Halfized.

I revert my glare to my half-bulging stomache.

It’s bulging not from food,

but words.

Words from this book and that.

Words from this voice and that.

I taste from each,

putting down

that which is left half-read,

half-heard.

I only have half the time.

The corporations and government have the other.

2.5

I do not eat as others,

finishing all that is on my plate.

I eat as a chef,

tasting

before I send the dish away.

‘How do you know it’s good,

if you don’t try it yourself’

So when I sit and eat as others,

my meal departs with the waitress

half-completed.

Half-eaten.

And I, half drunk

on a half carafe of red Chilean wine.

3

I have forgotten my childhood,

vanquished,

and repelled it from my truck window.

Pieces of my life fly about the black tar river,

run over by slick rubber tires,

jerked up into the air

to catch on a grill,

or float half-chaotically down upon the river again;

sooner or later, to be picked up by a prison detail.

I only have half a life.

Do I have enough of it to be honest?

How can I be more then half-truthful

anymore.

Ode to my Truck

• With the moon in its fifth day of waning
• and the artic air waxing,
• the night was vast and cold.
• I coasted her to rest w/in the shoals.
• The tar river was roaring,
• even so late.
• The thunder of the big trucks
• whizzing by.
• She shook,
• for she must have been cold too,
• frozen more like it.
• I tuck my hands underneath my thighs
• trying to keep my fingertips from freezing.
• My breath freezes on the windows.
• Please listen, to the story,
• The places we’ve been,
• Her engine singing to me.
• She was my companion,
• my home.
• With her,
• I pulled one dream
• out of another.

In the conception of life and reality

We’ve lived by different views.

Some seemed to‘ve worked.

Some seemed to‘ve not.

Some, which were the best,

strangely have been destroyed

by some of the worst.

And on and on and on and on and on

ink words sentences bytes paper trees

factories government explanations.

I find it unreal.

There’re so many theories out there

about what life is,

& what it isn’t.

Each one has their concept of how it all began

and how it’ll all end.

Some are held in the minds of many;

while, some are in the intellect of just one,

or hasn’t even been fully formed.

Conceived yet unborn.

Just a thought

In the conception of life and reality

We’ve lived by different views.

Some seemed to‘ve worked.

Some seemed to‘ve not.

Some, which were the best,

strangely have been destroyed

by some of the worst.

And on and on and on and on and on

ink words sentences bytes paper trees

factories government explanations.

I find it unreal.

There’re so many theories out there

about what life is,

& what it isn’t.

Each one has their concept of how it all began

and how it’ll all end.

Some are held in the minds of many;

while, some are in the intellect of just one,

or hasn’t even been fully formed.

Conceived yet unborn.

That’s a hard word to swallow.

But it’s one I was taught at an early age.

I’m being to wonder

If today’s world even knows what that means.