presentation appreciation

August 21, 2014


& Tho’ I’m so tightlipped sometime

I’ve often a soft spoken voice

I’ll go take this choice  this time

Pretend what’s set  went off

What followed

Got flat out


I could concur  then


My  “Amen”


August 11, 2014

Neruda’s ” impalpable ash”

Chants away/

In the fray of my own tiny ruins.


If I touch/ near the fire/

Impalpable ash..”

Chimes away/

And supports the clearing away  all


Makes way to take less blinding steps away

From  cave  to  climax

I’ve come to have left out

Crucial  rescue  tools

From my matutinal

Lost-combination locked bag of tricks.

In touch  information



January 21, 2014

Eli’s call came early

Cold & way too early for a new day

I was awake but I still dreamed

His call was a cry

As if it was for him

Insteada the other way

It was up to him

To set that we’d meet at the dimmest

Darkest strobing streetlight

Down under, nest to the trestle

When I got there, so was a girl named Angel

She held on to Eli, but could hardly protect him

We all talked abit how doctors acted watched lately

Fact is they were shy to grant old faithful effective cures

But daily, took chances guessing & giving crap

What well-dressed pharmaceutical promotion reps

Offered up in the morning hours


“You were once prescribed ho hum valientum”,

Eli teased, “And now Say Please

& I’ll fill your order ’till soon you’ll kill your ill-at-ease”

Angel smiled free of charge, her kind habit,

& I paid all the rest

And ran off like a rabbit.


January 3, 2013


lavender dark


My dusk meets dawn

I lack an abstract  with me in it

I mark it “Lavender Dark”

The last red poem/ the 1st read paean, it’ll

Open some day with somber informality,

Then steepen  in its diffusion

(diamond fogs are just  like that),

So that the only way out is to blow out a sigh,

Accept clever nonsense,

&  as ever, just sigh.



The visual piece “Lavender Dark” comes courtesy of the fine artist  IRAM.

You can visit her unique work at DeviantArt


October 22, 2012

In the upper peninsula of Michigan

blustery state road 2 you must go.

it’s quite common to drive over

deep blood in the snow/a dead buck or doe.

just as felines must fall & fill gutters

South of there, all over.

deep blood deep in the snow.

With the people of upper Michigan

it’s common they’ll drape over,

& tie up their meat

off the back their battered trucks

and freight it home to their freezers

for later.


Here in Southwest Florida

on the way to work

it’s uncommon…

(I called out “Oh my God!”)

It’s uncommon to drive over…

(I Killed an alligator!)

I was light on sleep and late for work

All in a dream’s dread, in my headlights

I called out “Oh my God”

still when I left work,  dark  in the dawning

(I left It for the taking.  It was gone.)

Still were spilled shadows. most, it was gone.


Lost. home, what would save me?

milk cream & alcohol

Nor Down on my knees

under Art on a wall;

Oils spilled on

empty space clean

I Know is for all, from All

(I called in “Oh my god”)

stains for a dream.





August 27, 2012

It’s the quicksand edge of a rain squall

It’s a sick man on the ledge of it all

It’s the shore shifting in a violent fright

In a midnight storm

In a maybe might/

A long winter before the glint and glimmer

of words  onto daybreak’s birdsong,

When enough  renewal’s  been suffered to,

Enough  burning  and churning and yearning

has been  laboured  through






.                                                                   (2009)

,                   (i)

No stranger is entering the room.

(I’ve thought of it a thousand times)

A final scene , in frozen zoom.


A muskscent  from a love above, yet menstrual metallic.

A  joke on angelic.

She drapes my drawn face. damp.

I shapen  long words for my last breaths and

She thrusts  every page I’d saved.

(stark boy to dark man/ all my sacred words)

She threw every page down (after waving them around).

And in sacred words of her own,

“Read  ’em  and  weep”

Then blessed  her lips

Onto  mine.



a friend of a friend, on the phone,

she shared a sharp poignant piece of her.

Sharp & important to her. It pierced me to hear.

Death bed of her dear friend,

Whispering   from the Mystic,

He gathered his loves up…


and asked if his paintings were boxed up.








July 21, 2012

“It is the function of art to renew our perception.  What we are familiar with  we cease to see.

The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.”

– Anais Nin




(from 2007, years ago, for laughs, we always require laughter)




I own my own muse
uncannily, I can amuse me
it’s fairly common knowledge,I think, that some Irish may
consider a spot of poteen and a pint at the end of a well-spent day…
God’s pay for a day’s good work. Earned.
when I get home from work, mornings, I spill a half swallow of irish whiskey in my glass, turn to look out the back window,raise my glass some, and To the sunrise’s orange and yellows, To the trees & water
I’ll whisper “yes, here’s to ya,then”.Coupla nights back, I noticed there was just half a swallow in the bottle I might savor in the next morning after work, and get the empty bottle out to the recyclable bin before the early truck. Before I headed off to work
the night before though, it was apparent that my sweet & neat mate, thinking logically that the bottle was another empty to go out, the night before, took it out.
the next morning, after getting out all the rest of the trash out to the front that needed to go,walking the 30 yards back up my broken driveway to the house, I stopped. I smiled, then started laughing as I walked back to the road, all the time thinking of the imaginary guy across the street, opening his blinds for the sunrise, slippers & robe, looking out and seeing the real life guy across the street walking out to the road, lifting the top up, and reaching deep down into the bin, pulling out a bottle, unscrewing the top and tipping it back for that last swallow.

Like Consequences, Early

June 18, 2012


As rising tides of daylight’s ocean/

Slice wide  through the blinds & the shrubs behind the blinds,/

The sun,/

Regretfilled notions/

Upset upon me   1  by  1/



April 30, 2012

“There are, it seems, two muses: the Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say “It is yet more difficult than you thought.” This is the muse of form. It may be then that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction, to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.” ― Wendell Berry
                     C  L  I  P

I’ve dreamt  and forget..

I only kept

One excerpt, one clip

I took back

Here to look back to


You could see down

To two  in the water,

Not drowned.

You could see that down there

That they were freely moving.



We ride out on

That river of grasses,

That  for a while now

Made for miles

Between us.


We’d ride out on

The one door, the one

We always want open

We’d ride one door

Still open

Wide to a wide world.




.                                                                                              (from ago,  & still)