Equality

the appearance of equality

ambiguities of collaboration

circumstances of having to deal 

with another locus of power

the balance creates 

a perception of an imbalanced dynamic

by some resistant to change

expectation to perform

not realizing                                     

you don’t need to achieve it 

on your own

F. E. Church

hilltop ruin built upon steadfast rock

swallowed by moss and shadow cast against

sublime splendor of blue and golden dawn

humankind smashed in its rage’s floodtide

nature’s way is to reclaim the ill-used

emerging from the earth like vines or trees

the artist with child’s eye and careful hands

sees the panorama and is engulfed

sees that all becomes engulfed and captures

the grand desolation of all designs

Untitled 9.28.22

mercurial eyeless pollen 

fights the rain’s green thumb 

exercises the demon to your right

faster longer lasting night lights 

ore of the tree fuel 

make artists of us all

for fifteen minutes of absolute

weeping in the gutters

gnashing of teeth

grist for the mill

the running feet of a caretaker

hand dragging the bedpan

deadpan are we there yet 

yes

no one is in the tunnel this afternoon 

if we go through we can hold hands 

cold spirits unseen and

sit on the park bench beneath the fruit tree kissing 

under a cloud haloed moon 

breath smelling of

all that fermented fruit at our feet

wasted on the ground 

haunting the olfactory branches

wife in the garage cleaning out the old tools 

making room for new artifice

new songs crackling on the radio

shafts of sunlight

gloria oh gloria there you are

we were just talking about you

The Actor

provide a path

instead of falling

seasoned becoming

onstage a prompter 

without this supportive part

performs this function

the double-edged sword

identity and nature

human to humus

Vintage Music

out of the violet shadow of the red rock

cold clear water calls singing

voice rising misty from the falls

condensing on green leaves fading gold

droplets running down smooth veins

between the dark grooves 

in bitter mossy bark

toward the rising smell of redolent loam

fast around roots thirsting

for the rich mineral sweetness 

of last season’s songs

Please Don't Wait

it’s no use to say

there’s so much to say

to further hesitate or

preface lazy phrasing

everything is in the saying

and the patience of the listener

so don’t tell me 

you don’t know where to start

but begin well and let words

do the rest

Snow Day

dark winter mornings

the voice of my father 

rattling my bedroom door 

get up and shovel snow 

in the frozen predawn blue

from the wine dark sky

large white flakes pelting 

up the rutted dirt and gravel driveway 

when done dreading 

this will happen again 

in darkness after dinner 

into the warm wood-heat 

stripping wet ice encrusted clothes

a steaming hot shower 

and catch the news school’s closed 

relief and joy doubled 

when the clouds break

and the sun comes out

Selfie

Cobbled together, 

a thousand mornings are empty

cardboard boxes stacked in a wall,

held together with tape.

A strong wind, or a child 

towel-caped like a superhero,

could demolish such a fragile façade,

in the green back garden, 

swollen with spring rain.

Every carbon-copy black night,

a man seeks every distraction

from the anticipation of 

never feeling happiness again.

Wincing at shadows,

writing and painting over the void

those fragments of beloved memories, 

concave with the reversing

weight of nothing.

More Than Human

more than human in name only

i slowly came into my roaming

so most here don’t know me

and no one owes me or owns me

religiously devoted to existential mess

needing tenderness 

dancing with the woman in the velvet dress 

that song grows more appealing by degrees

the autumn wind through the leaves

in the trees relieves me

the truth is i’m despairing believe me

and that could never free me

would freeze me if i let it

to give in would be too easy 

that’s sleazy so forget it

manufactured fracturing of the real struggle

to stay grounded and actual without a muzzle

so to speak clearly on my intentions

adding angles to my mentions

while maintaining a healthy somewhat selfless attention

disinterested interest like Edward Said said

before 2003 came and i learned he was dead

through overdue tears it’s hard to describe my sorrow

nineteen years tomorrow

Anti-Ouroboros

crippling fear of death by degrees dawned

an awareness of a desired distant 

removal made manifest

it was not an achieved alien attention

nor cool remove

nor ecstatic outside looking in

no it was the inside looking 

through the further within off kilter

and the stranger self a filter

in brief i had my head

so far up my own ass 

i was using my bitter eyes for glasses

and so taking action 

means a painful therapeutic

process of extraction

Orpheus In Hindsight

if you fucks were in any way worthy of trust

i would never have needed look back

but you‘re all greed and envy lies and lust

a bunch of pumped-up parricidal maniacs

Hades, you fool, you closed your eyes

while your bloody brothers peeking cheated

Poseidon and Zeus stole the sea and the skies

you slunk down underground betrayed and defeated

so now i’ll let these women tear me limb from limb

and chuck my bits and lyre in the stream

i turned and i return but not with visage grim

for Eurydice and our eternal dream

Restless

how impossible contentment feels

always awash in a wake of past worries

always waiting for what will skew awry

while meaningful moments slip idly by

Like Riding A Bike

if something requiring muscle memory

is like riding a bike

i unwillingly waited to fourteen

to learn balance on a ten-speed

then i fell instantly in 

scabby-elbowed bloody-kneed love

peddling up hill after hill

muscle power transfigured to joy

inviting nighttime charley-horses 

or a smiling fool sweating rocketing

down a steep sleeping street

most hair-wild summer days lost

taking turns to new places 

as my whole hometown unrolled

so what is it again that’s so like

riding a bike

sounds like the time of my life

if i remember right

The Gravity of Being

often translated as truth but

a fundamental force of mutual attraction

distinct from common conceptions

opening between the curvature 

of space and time

disclosure

on Earth gives weight

to things appearing as entities in the world

while the Moon makes tides

the opening of presence

organized original chaos into stars and galaxies

human fluid circulation cell differentiation

how things are made intelligible for

bodies uniformly accelerating

in freefall

Endangered

the tiny elf owl

hunts scorpions under a

silver desert moon

Cold Fish

    The carcasses of dead fish dotted the hardpack every few feet. Their silver scales shone against the dark sand in the late afternoon light. The warm, spring air of early May was thick with the smell of lake water and putrefying fish. 

    Charles squinted out across the sunlit water and absentmindedly poked a stick into the empty eye socket of a brown trout. The flies congregating there stirred, and then settled back down unwilling to give up their meal. 

    Beside him, Mal looked up and down the beach at all the fish, and wondered what was so wrong with Lake Erie that this happened every spring. He said, “So what are you going to do in Pittsburgh?”

    Charles pushed the stick deeper into the fish’s skull, lifted it, and flung it from the end of the stick out into the water. Sand blew back and pelted his face. Coughing, he turned his back to the wind, spit, and wiped his face on his sleeve while Mal laughed. 

    When he was done, he turned back to the lake and threw in the stick. “I already have a job lined up at a Barnes and Noble. I start training in two weeks. And I already got my acceptance letter from U Pitt, so barring an act of god, I’ll start there in the fall.”

    Mal picked up a piece of driftwood and stabbed a pointed end into the pale belly of another eyeless fish corpse. When the skin broke, some of the intestines slid out into the sand. “You worried?”

    “Nah.” Charles waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m like, fuck it, dude, you know? Jackie and I have a place, so I’ll have a roof over my head. I’ll work and take classes, she’ll get her PhD first, and I’ll get mine the year after. Then whatever happens, happens.”

    They turned and walked farther down the beach in silence. Mal walked head-down, looking for beach glass. Charles found a new stick and stabbed at the fish. A large log had washed up on the beach, and Charles jumped up on it, dropped the stick, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He closed his eyes and let the wind off the water blow his hair back.

    Mal looked behind them at their footprints in the sand. He took a deep breath and then turned to Charles. “Look man, there’s something I have to tell you.”

    The tone of his friend’s voice made him open his eyes and look down. Mal looked away out over the water. “What’s up?”

    “Remember the night of Rob’s party when I had to go pick up the pizza because their driver quit? And Jackie said she would go with me?”

    Charles nodded. His face was calm, but he felt his chest tightening.

    “She told me she knew you cheated on her with Christa. When I asked if she was okay, she said she was over it, and then … she asked me if I would fuck her.”

    “Oh shit. Fuck. Don’t tell me this shit now.” Charles jumped down, picked up a rock the size of a baseball and threw it in a high arc that ended in the lake. “Don’t fucking tell me, man.”

    “I have to, man. You’re going to live with her, and probably end up marrying her. She looked at your text messages. That’s how she found out.”

    “So. Did you fuck her?”

    Mal had tears in his eyes. “Yeah man. Yeah, we fucked.”

    Charles walked briskly up to Mal and shoved him. “You fucking cunt.”

    Mal fell backward, landing on his ass in the rock littered sand. Charles kicked him in the stomach and then fell on him with fists jabbing. Mal barely had time to get his arms up. Charles pinned him with his knees, and punched all the harder, screaming and spitting into his shielding hands and face. He tasted blood. He knew his lower lip was split and swelling. He could no longer open his left eye.

    When he finally stopped, Charles sat back looking at his throbbing fists. Mal took the opportunity to lash out with a sneakered foot, and heard the moist crack as his friend’s nose broke. Blood poured down over Charles’s lips and chin, spattering his shirt, but he just nodded and sat there watching it, crying and spitting into the sand.

    After a few minutes in silence, the friends stood and looked at each other with alien eyes. Charles took off his shirt, crumpled it in one hand, and held it to his nose. Mal went to the water, found a flat, cold, fist-sized rock, and pressed it to his left eye.

    Then, in silence, with the sun sinking behind them into the polluted water and its dying fish, they made their way back up the beach to the parking lot, and whatever lay beyond.

Restraint

in my rage

i sit quietly unfocused

i imagine i am in my heart pounding 

on the ceiling

so tired and pissed about 

the noise going on upstairs

Good Heart Marketplace

butterflies straddle your overactive body

your heart beats too fast

on the other hand

you may feel depressed

consequences for your heart

are either too much or too little

reserve the right to reject tampering

the more common maladies

can be confusing in most situations

in the past they were tightened

too many people are still being missed

if you believe you are convinced

you can purchase the equation for good

provided weekly free of charge

made possible in stores as a service 

to their customers but

it’s their sole property

reproduction is forbidden

they will not be held responsible

for the space occupied by error 

in any way shape or form and

prosecute to the full extent of the law

the other steps remain key

to keeping your heart

Wealth

the curmudgeonly miser over his ledger

looks down the nodules on his nose

counting coins he hides away

in a day the debt of his death

paid in base matter

for those who come to collect

it’s no matter at all

the earth swallows all

the rest is burned away

Futile

hollow gourd that rattles dried 

shriveled corn and teeth inside 

shake it shake it make it talk

insides leak out on the walk

so stuff it in a sack and stow it

aging uninspired poet

Goddess Of The Moon

Chang’e bade me come

obedient satellite

i do as she wills

Fading

half asleep beneath a dull distended moon

flat stars staring eyes from the swamp night sky

passion once prevailing was the wet monsoon

passed leaving the season aged and dry

Espresso Rossa

Hesper stood from her seat at the café table and waited to see if the large black pickup truck would slow. Horns blared as it blew through a stoplight two intersections away headed in this direction. A rush of adrenaline sharpened her senses. Noon light, reflected from windshields and bumpers, stabbed at her eyes. She heard gasps and cries of alarm from other café patrons who stood, ready to run – with one exception.

Parking was restricted in the front central area beyond the roped off patio. The truck was headed for exactly that spot. In the targeted area of the patio, at a small, round, single table, sat a man dressed in black jeans, a white polo and a black jacket. He was sipping espresso. A laptop was open on the table in front of him. He slowly put his cup back on its saucer and watched the approaching truck, his eyes narrowed to slits. 

To Hesper he looked less frightened than angry. Hateful, she thought.

She looked at the approaching truck and backed to the outside edge of the patio, reaching into her pocket for her phone. The driver of the truck was a woman with wild blonde hair blowing in the wind of the truck’s open windows. She was wearing large dark sunglasses and the left side of her face was covered in cuts and bruises. 

The driver’s attention was focused on the man with the black jacket who pushed his chair away from the table, but remained seated and staring.

Hesper stepped back again and felt the rope separating the patio from the sidewalk press against her leg. She raised her phone and took a burst of pictures of the vehicle and its driver. 

The truck thudded over two low concrete barricades. The sound of squealing brakes shredded the air as it skidded over the no parking area. When the truck finally stopped, a black cloud of smoke and the stink of burned rubber followed. The front bumper struck the small round table. It skidded on metal feet across the cement and smacked into the café windows crating a massive spider web of cracks. The laptop smashed on the cement patio and the white ceramic espresso cup and saucer flew. They hit the metal window frame and shattered to jagged pieces that sprayed in every direction.

Patrons screamed and jumped the patio ropes onto the sidewalk. Several of them turned back to watch, their phones out and up. 

From inside the café, muffled shouts and frenzied motion that Hesper could barely see through the highly reflective windows and glass door. 

The driver of the truck screamed and pounded the steering wheel. She threw open the driver’s side door and half tumbled out, landing on bare feet. Hesper watched as the woman rifled in her small white leather purse, while cursing loudly. She kept the open door of the truck between her and the man who finally stood, a mask of red rage on his face.

Hesper’s eyes were drawn to the thick silver rings he wore on each of four fingers of his right hand. The carved flat tops caught the sunlight as he squeezed that hand into a fist.

“Alyssa, you stupid bitch, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

The woman, Alyssa, found what she was looking for, and pulled a diminutive black handgun from her purse. It could have been a child’s toy, but something about the way the woman held it, and leveled it at the man as she slammed the door of the truck, told Hesper this was no toy. 

“Fuck you, you son of a bitch.”

“Jesus Alyssa. Look at you. What are you gonna do? Shoot me? You wanna go to fucking jail?”

Then, she shot him in the leg. He screamed in pain and hit the ground hard on his ass. 

“Better in jail than in that fucking house one more minute with you.”

Two café waiters in uniforms – black pants, black shirts, black aprons – approached from behind Hesper. As they passed her, one of them whispered, “Call 911.”

She watched as they gave the front of the patio a wide berth and moved quickly to the back of the black truck. They slowly approached the woman from behind.

She pulled the trigger again. He screamed and clutched at his chest. The white polo turned dark red from under his hand. His lips moved, but Hesper only heard a series of low gurgles. Blood spattered between his lips and down his chin, and then he fell over.

The waiters tackled the woman to the ground. The gun skittered across the cement and came to rest at Hesper’s feet with a few spinning white pieces of coffee cup.

The bloody man’s chest heaved once, twice, and then he lay still. A red puddle spread out beneath him. His rings glinted needles of light.

Finally turning away, hands shaking, she made the call.

Existence

thinking of all that history

just stories told sold and traded

the time before we were born

pools of selected fictions faded

into which we are birthed and swim

to not have been

to be to stand and then

to never be again

awake aware alive

this now the only time we span

then thrust into the thoughtless dark

to never be again

Cyclical Repast

first green once gold grown old at fate’s calling

from summer’s fading green pass through the gate

where boughs adorned with autumn’s fire falling

bow low beneath their fructuous bounty’s weight

soft but slick the covered ground appalling

forms cemetery season’s harvest plate

Pope Nietzsche

gold robed pontiff ride 

wholly upon that deeply buried instinct

mud flecked regalia

melt waters rise flowing over loam

bear the dead blessing 

build a bridge 

to the silent frigid pitted fertile face 

of god

Muse

she walked in the red bar 

and the music changed 

her gaze swam the atmosphere 

warming here 

cooling there

and i wanted to be the air over her lips

the cold drink she sipped

the condensation rolling over her hand

the dance her body took into the rhythm

not to possess that muse

but to be a medium

through which she moved

and she didn’t even speak to me

but it was all glory glory 

glory to share 

the space with her at all

The Empty Place

the house is dark

but for her open eyes

no animal taps across the floor

no hungry mouth cries

a kettle steams in moonlight

spilling on a table fit for two

the extra chair in shadow

the pregnant silence blue

Persecution Prosecution (Let's Call The Whole Thing Off)

that former journalist 

reported

tried

government agencies corrupt

marked crackdown media 

military industrial affairs

shady arms deals

information published

gathered in the public court

national accusations confirmed 

utterly

insisted on his innocence 

illegal charges absurd 

fabricated case ruling

authorities’ revenge exposed

a monstrous sentence

that former journalist

was convicted of treason

with no evidence

Summer Down In A College Town

sometimes i remember

mauve sunsets at the beach 

the rocky giving sand 

the somehow salt smell of lake water

cycling alone in purple dusk

wonderful free sweat

heat of the summer running

followed by long late-night walks

through quiet empty streets

no greater loneliness

no greater freedom

Banned Books

curled dead leaves

doors of advantage closed 

privileging harm 

wings clipped limits

minds dropping from flight

attention’s hunger celebrates freedom

libraries expand perspectives

encourage a boundless worldview

explore what is denied

to read is to fight

Archangel John

Coltrane blow your horn 

from scratchy subterranean vinyl

or high digital heaven

like an angel in the cloud

hear my prayer and download

like raindrops on roses

that supreme love

savior of my blue soul

A Dream Of Summer's End

the sun warm and low

through autumn-gilded leaves

orange light blue shadows

wooden wheels roll from grass

to rutted road

this train waits for no man 

wagons covered in cotton canvas

the bowl of grain is overturned 

going

from its place atop her head 

she tips the clay jar

water flows from thigh to knee

clearing away sand from feet

with the child

a swaddled pup

go now

continue to the horizon

Work II

if time is money

alienation 

is expensive