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


2020, New Poems: workings and beginnings., questions

Is the cause of the suffering within life the letter ‘I’?

The external world
and how we experience it
is constantly changing;
as we are constantly changing.
Our sensations,
our minds,
our consciousness,
our character,
all are in perpetual flux.

Trying to identify a permanent self
is futile;
because a permanent
or independent self really doesn’t exist.
So as one quests for the cause ,
the why,
for suffering,
one sees that everything is fleeting,
and changing;
there’s nothing one can put your finger one,
to say,
that is the cause of the pain.

it’s sort of like saying,
one was born on this day,
and that was when I began,
but what about nine months before ,
when the sperm met the Oocyte,
and formed the zygote.
or the meeting of ones mother and father,
and on and on.

So when some one calls me white,
it is not true.
I have Celtic, Pike, Norwegian, Frank, Roman,
Cherokee, Iroquois, Bulgarian, Bavaria,
Neanderthal, Anglo Saxon, Norman,
Denisovan, and on and on.

Is the cause of the suffering within life the letter ‘I’?