2002, POETRY, Struck by Lightening


Each hair on my head
has its own idea of where it should go.
There’s not much left of it now
to clog up the bilge;
‘cause, I took my chef’s knife to it
two days ago in a marina bathroom,
which rocked back and forth
as I sawed
with knife in one hand
and a clump of hair in the other.

When I came out
brushing strains of hair from my cut-off shirt,
a leather skinned woman stared at me,
smiled and said.
-a little hot out there huh kid?

-yeah. I laughed.

2002, POETRY, Struck by Lightening

Thrown into the River

Wordless, I am
in this wave of wanting
for life flows within this river,
in which they threw me.
I did not die,
I flourish.

Moist flour, garlic, thyme and lemon grass,
these scents float through the air,
as you lean against me.
I embrace you.
I live of you.

I have a muddy heart,
for I have lived in the river a long time.
The night mud was my home
With the catfish, eels, and tadpoles.

Albeit, life lives within these waters,
surging through the excrement of death.
So love flows through time.

2002, POETRY, The Uncollected Poems

The Birds

After talking to you .
I let the dogs out
and went about cleaning my room.
going through papers and books.
trying to make since of it all.
I put on Nick Cave’s Boatman’s Call.
and then went out side
to look at my pepper and tomato plants.

The birds become abundant
crying ,
Buddy Gump walks at a fast pace
with birds flying all around him.
orange chests pushed into his face
beaks pecking at his butt
his tail tucked underneath.

I recall
a kitten that once purred in my lap;
then, later she clawed at my face.
her tail wagging,
strong sharp snaps
back and forth.

The birds circumvent me,
as Buddy hid behind me.
Their brown wings
crack before me.
I stand.
Their movements become tornadic.
they fly from me
to Buddy
to the trees
to the small black birds that fly about the sky.

but what was this all about?

There is a secret caught inside,
inside the throat.
hidden radiant whiteness.

Two birds attack and hammer us back,
Buddy Gump, I and the other birds.

But for what?
I bear witness to my own cowardice,
As I see that they joined together
to declare us dead.
for love:
a little baby bird had fallen
while trying to fly.
He had come down to rest within the dangers of the ground world.
for him these birds have lived
and for him they will die.

What they didn’t realize,
Buddy Gump was just trying to say hi,
to the little bird.

2002, A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, POETRY, The River

Flash light to the stars

Flash light to the stars.

There’s much to say;
which cannot be said.
There’s much which has been lost.
Simplicity’s Diversities.
I was born with desires
as all men.
this fleshly body
questing for spirit, love, and….,
I so desperately need.
The black river I’ve taken
hasn’t been a high one.
The things I’ve done
don’t link to self pity, nor pride,
but matter of factly:
a pop up.
The black river isn’t marked well.
There’s No GPS nor search engine.
The channel markers are so far apart
It’s hard to see ‘em.
if ya don’t know your heading to the exact degree,
you can easily find yourself grounded
easy prey to the waves
as the storm grows.