January 30, 2019

“This  ole  sot

Theoretically  is   empty,”  he went,

“Momentarily  anyways.”

Faces death, & all that rot,

Not to say, not so long before  he’s meant.

He sifts scenery…all Regret.

But m’Lord of Mercy. .Not that scent!


“More of whatcha  got,”

Forwarding his fine glass there,

“Don’t stop  just yet.”










June 15, 2018


Man, I meant it to my mentor

I can change my ways

I can switch to watch myself more

I will strive to love myself a ways


I will abandon my old standards

I’d wait ’till noon ’till I would start

Hell, and it is just eleven thirty

We are (less stressededly) we are keeping the donkey before his cart.




peat wagon by don melvin.



December 14, 2015

Inexactly, a drinking priest,

You’d think he, at least  & at last,

Classically, might be caught in

(Necessary) tight vises

Of a crisis of faith.


Vacuously, I’ll see  it’s not

Necessarily true.

Knowing the knowing  needs

the slowing some

the clogging some

of logic  to help the heart sing through




(for Graham Greene & Tennessee Williams, & their wondrous torturous sermons)



(from years back)

From “The Lost Weekend”

December 12, 2015

“When he was a kid–fourteen, fifteen–writing a poem every night before he went to sleep, starting and finishing it at one sitting even though it might be two or three o’clock, that bathroom mirror had come to mean more to him than his own bed. Nights when he had finished a poem, what could have been more natural, more necessary and urgent , than to go look at himself to see if he had changed? Here at this desk, this night, one of life’s important moments had occurred. Humbly, almost unaware, certainly innocent, he had sat there and been the instrument by which a poem was transmitted to paper. He was awed and truly humble, for all that he must look in the mirror to see if the experience registered in his face. Often tears came genuinely to his eyes. How had it come about–why should it have been he? he asked himself in humility and gratitude. He read the poem in fear and read it again. Now it was fine; would it be so tomorrow? He raised his eyes from the scrawled re-written sheets and listened to the night. No sound whatsoever..”

Charles Jackson, from “The Lost Weekend”

(Yes, that “The Lost Weekend”)

These  agonies, stowed loud  to stoic  quiet,

Annoy her, as if their noise could be heard,

Annoy her,  every word,

Every imaginable syllable

And though a throw-away joke…

She’ll attest is a thrust attack,

Jeez  these agonies

Have me taken aback

Have me taking pills & drink to swill ’em back.


September 22, 2015

For where I’ve furtively gone

To see the sideshow again

A short glass is poured/

His suitcase secured/

Usual confusion loosens all the stops

To go  &  forgo this wait   or aim to

Get out the gate   and on to

The Big Top.




.                          (from half a dozen years ago, but still not a lie)

The moon is mainly  fully  lit


Tho’ I’ve never about had my fill of it

Oh, I’ll right have my fill all right.

I really might be going down tonight.

For all the ale,too, that might rescue me tonight.

No Not enough  I’ll go stay to harder stuff.


I’ve got a  six foot ladder

And a  sixteen foot wall.

I’m good at math but

I couldn’t fathom the fall.

I’m sure, I can’t figure the fall





(from 2010)



May 11, 2015

very lately

I’ve looked to see

just off a shoulder,

sharp right outside a window,

just off camera,

some one  or thing, I think.

The  There, then not  trick.

Here I’ll see it

here I’ll see it for what makes sense.

Y’see, I’ve evidence.

sea foam phantoms

left a belated beat back

just after this wave sweeps back.

I don’t think it’s drink

or the hours I should sleep or

all the private pranks I

fall for.

I’ll envision these


green sea black deep.

I take my ten tablets.

Wash  ’em w/ Irish.

It’s my time

for medicine,

& no time for nonsense.

I’m ready I’ll try to pull hard

for a merciful god.

Finally I’ll try my hand

To move a pen

To move my words

To move me.




.                                             (from 2009, slainte)

All Paul Simon sang  he

Via telephone headphones  to me

“..half of the time  you’re gone..

but you don’t know where

you don’t know where.”

i  wept  at  work.


Yet i got Simic  in his lunch sack/

I got Irish for when i get home

For salve & for saving him/

More, I have a mate giving me gladness

Across  the  state

I love indirectly  like madness