putting our pieces back together


anywhere but down

how can I express myself honestly and still ring the hunchback’s bell
step into the sun with no collective gasp
hide truths in cobwebbed corners while yanking those thick hemp ropes
the ugliness in one’s heart is never to be plucked precisely off
an engorged wood tick on Samson’s skull, hidden deep in his glorious mane
efforts are like force feeding dying cattle, they will produce no more meat
no milk from the teats of their mothers, they lost footing long ago to rot
forget the suffering herds, they passed when the silos were abandoned
and there should be no cheap corn in their stomachs anyway
foreshadowing on the farm, just look at that rooster ’cause it ain’t pointin’ anywhere but down
this is in not a barometer of my particular emotional position
merely words floating in my head that I had to get out

skeleton stallion

skeleton stallion


magical words, miraculous changes

it has been said
passed down from yuletide lips
Charles Dickens saved Christmas
not the man, ’twas the book
his story, we all know
if you don’t (your library copy might have gotten jammed in an 1843 chimney)

Industrial Revolution spinning at warp-speed
factory holidays are ghost shadows
we are living in the fast-pacing present–more is better
our dull, simple past soiled with slumming traditions–less was less
one floor above sweating basement workers, the future appears bright and shiny
a young boy’s father gets locked up in debtors’ prison
the child Charles, now forced to labor in a “rat-infested boot-blackening factory”

these formidable memories haunt Dickens

I imagine Charles back then
beneath winter’s moonlight
childhood terrors like bony hands slamming rusted leonine door knockers
he summons these all-too-vivid specters to do battle with his benevolent muse
the war won
A Christmas Carol is born

“…in 1867 Dickens reads A Christmas Carol. One of the audience members,
Mr. Fairbanks (a scale manufacturer) was so moved that he decided to break custom
and give his workers Christmas Day off and not only did he close the factory,
he gave turkeys to all his employees.”

magical words can inspire hearts to make miraculous changes

Little Tree

Little Tree

Charles Dickens, true to his words became an exceptional philanthropist. “…the welfare of the nation’s children was at the top of his list of concerns, and he used his pen and his considerable dramatic and oratorical powers to raise awareness of the plight of poor children and to raise money for children’s charities…”

sources in order of quoted appearance: Uncle John’s, Christmas Collection (yes, the Bathroom Reader, please don’t judge where I sometimes readđŸ˜‰), charlesdickensinfo.com, hharp.org

if my little poetry book love of the monster helps one heart, that would be a gift I’d keep trying to giveđŸ˜˜

heightened hubris

no one grinning over my shoulder
down here

watching me etch letters into mold
my sensitive nose, a poor man’s vision replacement
vague air under-pacing
the fast fuzzy spider spinning by the lamp
shut off
sun blazing passed the cheap plastic slats
diagonal down so the mower men stop looking in
though one dude is always smiling, he’s so happy riding his bitchin’ machine
Goddamn, I swore no more potty mouth musing
hope naughty interpretations blossom into prescient ponderings
I read Bukowski
depending on my mood
the man scares the shit out of me with his fast forward funk
or he shatters my drunken heart
clearly his was crushed long ago maybe before he knew himself
his manmind discovered a bolder way to tap that
I imagine Charles Bukowski
not a Charlie, never a Chuck, that would agitate
I know a Robert who is not a Bob
only very Robert, Robert most in his complicated blue eyes
like me, never an Ann even in pixie haired days
definitely not an Annie, though most women confident enough for the “ie” are quite spectacular
bubbly and honest
I am neither
at this particular moment
I’m not writing from my head
I fear

you might not come back
and I would be forced to dig lower than Hell’s hole (she laughs)
I do not sleep very well
the brain

she can be such an ass
I promised her not to become one of those
with heightened hubris
speaking in tongues about only mine

when this wicked whacked world is shaking

God, please don’t let the world shatter, shatter, shatter deep
like Charles Bukowski’s heart when it’s breaking



I made her, if I spoke with her she might tell me she is sad, she wouldn’t have chosen hair to hang in her eyes though she does appreciate inner peace tucked beneath snake scales

virgin voyeurs of earth

out the kitchen window
frenetic tenants
little prodigious noise makers
mustering their gumption
marshaling silken feathers
willing to tap the sky
drum wing beats on blues wind
a small hole
window to the world
a movie trailer sans surround sound
until this moment
and here I am cursing under my breath
gotta get on that damn elliptical
freakin’ pushups
then chauffeur
a carload of young men
shop the mall with a teenager
I want to draw, have to write
the birdlets
damn, look at them
eyeing the planet for the first time
virgin voyeurs of earth
number one
the leap
fluttering onto the pooped deck
hopping like a freak club dancer
halfway out
shit, I’m wasting time
but how often
do you bear witness
to life’s entrance
I glue my antsy feet
c’mon two
I’m egging her on
there she goes
lands on the glass table
a venerable Rockefeller skater
those twig legs glide on sandy ice
she’s gone
hop, skip, jumped onto a nearby tree
the little crapper on the pooped deck follows her lead
two new babies shaking up the leafy world
the third
hanging with its mouth agape crying for more food
time check
okay, I watched
I satiated my mother guilt observing the little miracle
I know I can write about this later, good for something
no more action coming from the hole
show is over
two newbies out to rock terra firma
I wonder how the fourth would have grown
a few days ago
I picked up a little broken body off the table top
she was not a skater
maybe a dreamer
well, I don’t want to think about this anymore
there is an elliptical that must be dealt with
pushups to be cursed through
a giant son and equally large friends to bring places
a daughter to shop with
there is a small window
a place
a baby might look through
crashing the world party

red-crested woodpecker

red-crested woodpecker

concerning my libido

if it’s a deep kiss you want
let’s do it
my feet left the floor
last month
in anticipation of this moment
xxx warning xxx
my desire outweighs my conscience
for this reason
I sometimes neglect the morning newspaper
don’t want to risk a good feel

while luxuries abound in my life
how rotten am I
worrying about
a kiss
a caress
my libido
in worldly places
where breathing moments are precious

passionate dalliances are often secured
by fashionista souls treading upon Pietra Firma tile
and silk bodies illuminated beneath chiseled sconces
so tonight
lips will ripen
with fine red wine
matching tapered candles lit
but not one faith-bearing votive
will glow in service

I Naturally/mixed media

art-from college way back, corporate identity class