She sported two black eyes
like prized tattoos.
Hit me again she said.
So I hit her hard across the face
with the back of my hand
careful not to hurt my knuckles
for I needed my hands to earn my living
and I still needed to put two sons through college.
Her head went back and blood splattered
through the air in slow motion.
A strange laughter escaped her lips.
She looked to be intoxicated.
Come on big boy, hit me like you mean it.
Don’t hold back.
Don’t worry about them pretty boy hands.
Hit me like this.
I didn’t see it coming.
She slapped me hard across my face.
As a reflex, I hit her full fisted, as hard as I could.
Her head snapped back.
I heard bones crack.

I woke up startled to the phone ringing.
The ceiling fan spinning.
Hello, I said.
It was her.
What are you doing? Still asleep?
No, not now I said.
I made you some coffee.
It is nice and strong.
Come get you some.
I told her I’d be right over.
I threw on some clothes
hopped in the car
and headed towards her flat.
Wondering what it all meant.
If anything.


by mixing our love
with Mine
We find the elixir
Our hearts beat quicker
Time slips through our hands
At a faster pace
We part this world much sooner
Still I’d say: let’s drink!

If my Love brings you sadness
And I disappoint
And tears mare your lovely face
I’d rather slumber
In my own dark grave
A lone
Than to know that I brought you sorrow.

Time is Stagnant. Fixed at the eternal now. It appears to move because we move through it. The Grand Illusion is the passage of time. All that exist is the NOW and it is eternal, and complete, I tried to explain all of this to my banker but he couldn’t quite grasp it. He said he wanted his #@€¥@ money back. And he wanted it, past tense, NOW! Poor Soul.

Snowflakes race in spiral lines
to gather on the laden pines
that humbly bow beneath the strain
of heavy snow and frozen rain.
Now and then a branch will break
beneath the uninvited weight
and is buried in a grave of snow
no one but I will ever know.
Though the path to Ison’s place
has for the moment been erased
I think that I shall always know
the way that is the best to go
with memories from so long ago.
There she lays, ole Ison’s pond
the one we used to gather on
where I’d bust my butt and bruise my head
and push and pull that wooden sled
that papa let us help him make
that time it snowed on Christmas day.
Faintly now I think I hear
the sound of children’s laughter near
and I become a child again
playing here with all my friends.
Over the hill comes a bundled bunch
I’m not real sure but I have a hunch
that’s old man Ison’s great grandkids
came home for Christmas like I did.
They came to play; I came to sleep
for now the snow is far too deep
and thoughts are heavy on me now
that make my wearied head to bow.
For soon I know they’ll carry me
with all my friends and family
down the isle and through the gate
to my plot at Aldersgate.
They’ll bid me bye; They’ll bid me well;
of after-life though; who can tell?
In the end I bend for fear I’ll be
A stone in the mist of stones
A name in a field of names
and who will ever know, but me?

She was BIG and pregnant,
pleasantly plump.
She ran a bath,
in that claw-foot tub
and quickly sunk,
beneath the bubbles,
her belly stood up.
With an angelic voice
she began to sing:
“Momma’s little baby
loves shortnin’ shortnin’ . . .
momma’s little baby
loves shortnin’ bread.”
We never dreamed,
in all the dreams we dreamed,
that momma’s little baby,
would be born dead.

Everyone needs a good poem
Who could disagree?
So the Bureau of Standards in Agreement
of what we all doth need.
Established a law; all by themselves.
The law read thusly: This is the way that it shall be.
To everyone who hath no poem
a poem shall be freely given; and likewise inverted
To everyone who hath more than one poem
poems shall be freely taken.
And everyone agreed in agreement
This law was surely good,
mostly because it felt that way.
So by coercion they took poems
from the more fortunate, the lucky, the poets
and from all of those who where blessed by whatever
gods there be, to have and to hold, to feel and to know, poems.
The Poem Police were ruthless.
They took poem after poem by force
until the poets were poor
in sprit and in truth
Saying: what is the use?
of tilling and hoeing
of raking and sowing
of struggling by the sweat of the brow, to reap
just to have it taken away; and unappreciated at that.
The takers allocated
while the bureaus produced bureaus.
And everybody reported to somebody,
The Poem Police reported to:

The bureau of the ………………….Poem  Police
who reported to The bureau of  Oversight
who reported to The bureau of  Language Use
who reported to The bureau of  Investigation
who reported to The bureau of  Common Unity
who reported to The bureau of  Everything
who themselves, as a public manifestation
of their ethical propriety, graciously
reported to The Bureau of Standards in Agreement.
Therefore everybody knew that all was fair and just.
But, there was one big problem.
Perfectly good poems were spilt, ruined
and simple lost all along the way.
And the lazy wanted more free poems
and they treated the poets with contempt.
And the poets grew weary, tired, and frustrated.
Saying: Poems should be exempt!
Times got so bad that one couldn’t even push one
perfectly good poem down the bureau chain
to it’s rightful owner, the needy.
Before the poem would get even halfway down the chain
It would completely vanish, gone into thin air.
It simply ceased to exist, evaporated.
No level of accounting could account for it.
It was gone. That is all that anybody knew.
And everybody knew that.
The lazy began using poems as floor mats.
The poets hid them in their cupboards
The children grew spiritually skinny, physically fat,
without form and void
wanting only affirmation
idle, hour upon hour.
The poets lost hope.
The lazy bellyached.
The bureaus begat bureaus.
And Life was; As Life is.

If I lost it all last year
because she had been unfaithful
and found comfort in another man
I could forgive that swiftly
without bonds of memory
It would be an easy thing to do.
And if I lost it all
because of something she thought
if she really thought
that I had been untrue
for as wrong as her strong
suspicions might be
I know I could forgive that too.
But if I lost it all
because she lost confidence
in the dreams that I pursued
then forgiveness comes harder
for I’m such a good starter
but poor on my follow through.