Turnips in Southern Tennessee Still


In Tennessee, the shadows of the southern
wooden structures stalled off the narrow
highway and came to an abrupt end.
Lost in the deep eyes of forest green,
closing in on night.
From the top of a Yellow Poplar
tree scares me looking down
at the hillbilly stills. Moonshine
and moonlight illuminate the fire stills.
Moonshine murders of the past,
dead bodies hidden behind blue walls.
Mobs lie in Chicago, bullet marks
on the right side lie dormant through plaster.
This confirms my belief that Jesus
only works part-time.
Let me look at this mirage
picture photo album.
One more time—
find the turnips in the still.

Hot sand


The gusts blast like furnace-fire
In this desert land,
And never does the heat seem more oppressive
Than now,
An oven-blast and a scorched-earth policy.
Such an arid heat that it doesn’t even allow
For sweat,
Much less mercy.

THE WOUNDS THAT BIND

An afternoon ramble. The strong sun
anointing my head with its light.
A neighbor's peonies position themselves
to display their petals of pastels.
I walk with a cane, now seventy-eight,
having fallen a few weeks before.
A crow cruises past from the left
as I topple on my face on the asphalt.
My wire-rim glasses lacerate the skin
and the fall fractures my nose.
It fascinates me how the quick
blood creates a widening pool
that will stain the concrete walk
for at least weeks after this moment.
I remember the emergency call
and the rescue crew immediately arrived.
The long weeks of recovery ahead
have become like a rehearsed script
a line prompter whispers as I perform.
The raw indentation disfiguring my
brow I'll pretend is a dueling wound.
And then I remember on Father's Day
the deep scar on my father's forehead
he got as a child on his family's farm,
when he fell under a plow's steel rake.
Now we have become close in our falling.

Thoughts on Art

A lot of people
want to go on
about art.

Process,
style,
accolades.

But I'd rather make art
than just talk about it.

Looking back

she wasn't quite sure
how it started, sex in closets,
empty offices, after hours
before cameras were installed,
under desks, fellating a man
lunch times, the Ultimate
Take Out Order, eaten in with
all kinds of men her husband
despised, especially Ethnics
as he'd learned to say on the job
guarding hard core recidivist
juveniles, on a mission to
become adult repeat offenders
& it wasn't as if she wasn't
getting any at home, it just
lacked something indefinable,
something Real, something like,
Once More With Feeling.



Ghostkeeper

She looked kind of
spooked, scared shitless,
by something so awful
she had to keep it
totally concealed,
buried inside someplace
only a couple of two or
three Manhattans
would let it out.
Even her voice,
her gestures, started
changing as the booze
hit bottom, effecting
such a complete change
in her manner and her being,
every time she went to
The Ladies, you wondered
what the next makeover
would bring, what would
come back in her place
and how crazy that new person
would be.

The Rising Moon  

 
The moon is rising
Time to think
The day that just passed
Is it fruitful or futile

The moon is rising
Time to have  
Dinner and rest
With or without a mate

The moon is rising
High above the roof 
Refreshing regrets and
Dreams long ago

The moon keeps rising
Shining windows and the door
Warming the heart
To keep it straight

The moon keeps rising
Time to miss
Parents and those close
They’ll always live in your heart

The moon keeps rising
Time to doze and fall asleep
Tomorrow is another day
The dawn beckons first

The moon keeps rising
Nights and nights
Life is nothing but
The forever moon 

Bad Ass Bar

I don't know just how it happened, but
Somehow someone bumped into me
And I spilled my beer on this guy's shoes.
Him and his whole crew was pissed.
They were suddenly in 'ass beating' mode.
My offer to buy beers all 'round rejected
And a slick fabrication of multiple excuses
Didn't calm the situation down.  So I had
No choice but to go to the extreme with,
"Klaatu barada nikto! Klaatu barada nikto!"
His, "What'd you call me, mother fucker?" 
Was followed by the fight and getting
Kicked out of the club.  Yeah, nikto night.

Target Acquisition

Surprisingly compliant
to the will of the created
the Creator
withdraws as far
as we push.
Our hand child-like
formed as a gun
index finger
pointed at God
thumb raised as a hammer
it falls
“Bang, you’re dead,”
we say,
blow gunpowder’s
smoke from finger’s barrel
shove it back into
our jacket pocket.
Business as usual
full speed ahead
until the day God
shoots back.
“Bang, YOU’RE dead.”
He blows the smoke
from his finger
as life
truly
begins.

I'm only an Imagist when I can't come up with a metaphor

The air is pungent with humidity.
Thunder stumbles across the sky.
I wish it would rain so I could open
my windows to the June night breeze.

In the just-twilight, fireflies litter
my yard like constellations twisting
in the dark matter streams between galaxies
but I won't see the stars tonight.

Graceful as ballerinas practicing
before a wall of mirrors, a parcel
of deer pose along the fence line,
one of them white as lightning,

and I don't even bother
to take a picture.

CLANG

I have seen expressions of want

of faces that impelled me

to drop a coin in a cup –

nothing adds up
to hope
in such circumstances –

just the clang
of silver
on silver
on tin –

I have heard
desperation -

it came from no mouth -

just the rattle of a container