Crazy-eyes
 
The last time I saw Crazy-eyes Doris,
She was on the top of the cab of a mac truck
Wailing away with a # 4 heavy duty tie down chain
Busting out windows trying to get at the driver.
How she held on while it sped down the highway in
A frantic defensive serpentine course I have no idea.
Her topside skill was like a bull rider on a raging beast.
An epic showing of such determination, such tenacity.
The trucker’s CB echoed with pleadings for help,
Frantic prayers to the Big Dispatcher in the sky.
And still, Crazy-eyes Doris continued in her fury
As the semi continued on its terror ridden path.
Those that, in awe, witnessed this exhibition
Still tell the tale to this day.  And agree that
One must not, under any circumstance, skip out 
On their tab at Ron’s Wayside Truck Stop Diner.
Especially since Ron has the good Samaritan policy,
Good man that he is, of hiring the recently released
(or, wandered over) from the local mental initiation.  
 
 
 
 
Booze Talk
 
His speech was a bit slurred
And he drooled a little.
“Yo”, he said, “There’s more
Than one way to skin a cat.
But who wants a skinless cat?
Body’d be all wet and tacky,
Guts probably hangin’ out.
And flies, yeah, buncha flies.”
Words of wisdom.  He’s nuts.
Only time he talks is when
He gets liquored up or high.
He used to be the ‘cool cat’,
Jazz man, fast car, hot babes,
Stylish threads, pompadour.
Used to really wail on that sax.
Used to, now, it’s all ‘used to’.
Nothin’ dramatic, just old age
Slowly slipped up on him
And he wasn’t ready for it.
So old, alone, neglected,
He spends his days and nights
Boozed up or high talkin’ 
Crazy stuff when he does talk.
We let him hang around.
Yeah, it’s sad.  But The really
Sad part is that, someday, 
This might be me.

Listening to Bulerias de la Nina Mora
 
The most important thing in flamenco 
is passion. —Sara Baras
 
You could swear
The guitarist has birds for hands:
The flashing fingers take flight
Across the fretboard
Before her warbling wail
Breaks in—
A lamentation of need
As urgent as any animal.
The guttural cry 
Is spectacular
And then the rhythmic claps
As Rodrigo slaps the strings.
You are no gypsy,
You thought yourself inflammable.
But now your blood begins to sing
Stronger than caffeine in coffee
As you stifle a strangled shout—
Suddenly remembering 
That the soul is a burning coal
No amount of heel stomps
Can stamp out.

braille for fellow madmen  

more often than not 
each synapse is 
a demon’s whip crack  
my brain lashed 
over & over 
throbbing bloody welts
rising against my skull

the dirt coroners 

one day the maggots 
will carry out yr autopsy 
their final conclusion 
a string of belches

THESE 4 WALLS
These four walls have closed in for 
Me of late, keeping me captive as we
Enter yet another period of lockdown.
Word has come down that we shouldn’t
Even leave our homes but for some it’s
Becoming so damn difficult.  We, who
Work the kind of job that keeps us all
Going, often live in single rooms and 
Are often alone and it’s hard as I wake
Every morning knowing the only voice
I will hear all day is whoever is on
My radio as I sit here struggling with
These words as my 4 walls close in.

This Tiny Peace

I sit at my window,
In this tiny piece
Of the world,
Content with the scenery,
In no hurry at all,
No need to go fast,
Alright to go slow.
This is my portion,
In this time and place,
To have time to consider,
And contemplate...
The plan to create 
A new world to rule,
Is progressing at light speed,
With no need to fool,
The minions at large,
Signed on for the ride,
But once they consider,
And realize their plight,
They will no longer be able
To think for themselves,
Or turn back the tide.
In the end there’s no worries.
This too will pass,
The cyber connection,
Not meant to last.

Illusions of Invincibility

Time seems to rise and fall
like the tall-grassy 
memories of man's youth.

In this lifetime 
I’ve seen men at 
their weakest moments,
so low that cracks on dirty
wet porches towered above them
and again, on the summit 
of their most triumphant 
accomplishment.

And now, looking back
I can see that the greatest 
differences in those men 
were not the strength of
their bodies or the money
in their pockets, but their thoughts.

I’ve suffered so much pain 
and the loss of men that I often 
wonder when I might crack and fall.

We called each other brothers. 
We were related by commonalities 
and friendship, a need to be around 
others like us who understood. We all 
had our own stories, some sadder than 
others. But we would grow to understand 
that the blood flowing inside our veins 
does not define our brotherhood. Some of us 
would also grow into feared men, some 
sooner than others. Like men in war, we 
bonded as brothers in arms. Some conquered 
their worlds with illusions of invincibility. 
Many of them are gone now. And now 
that the end is in sight, all the illusions 
I once shared with them subside into 
the past like so many of their faces have. 

Sinner’s Song
 
All the things I conquer
They come back like fate.
And the things I treasure
Become the things I hate.
I want a heart like Jesus
But I ain’t no saint.
See my fallen halo?
I pick it up too late.
 
I wrestle with my demons
But I sometimes let them win.
And if you don’t believe me
Just ask dear Rosalyn.
She will say I’m spineless
Even though I’m a vertebrate.
See my fallen halo?
I pick it up too late.
 
I surely ain’t no angel
I never claimed I was.
And sometimes if I’m drinkin’
I’m a little more than buzzed.
The preacher man on Sunday
Said “God don’t make mistakes.”
See my fallen halo?
I pick it up too late.
 
I make my resolutions
But I know my will is weak.
I have the best intentions
But I think I’ve sprung a leak.
I’m like a broken building,
You forgot to renovate.
See my fallen halo?
I pick it up too late.
 
I used to have more courage
I used to be admired.
I’m not sure how it happened
But now I’m just so tired.
If you gave me a kingdom
I’d surely abdicate.
See my fallen halo?
I pick it up too late.
 
We all have our temptations
And mine has long black hair.
I know that she’s no good for me
I know I should beware.
Of course, I shouldn’t meet her
No, I should not fornicate.
See my fallen halo?
I pick it up too late.
 
All the dice are loaded
And I won’t play the game.
All the lies exploded
And now there’s just the flame.
A candle in the darkness
Helps me to contemplate.
But see my fallen halo?
I pick it up too late.
 
Yes, all the things I conquer
They come back like fate.
I know I should resist this
But still I hesitate.
And in my weed-choked garden
No good seed will germinate.
See my fallen halo?
I picked it up too late.

Re: Vision
“I’ll lick stamps,” I told the gargoyle from HR during the job interview. “I’ll lick whatever you want.” He shook his big, ugly head no. And as quick as that, I found myself back on the street. It had just started to rain when Jesus appeared. My first thought was that he looked nothing like his picture. 
&
Horror is everywhere. If you go searching for some way to escape, you’ll just end up in a 24-hour McDonald’s beside a woman with fangs and a mustache. I’m not there even when I am, head crooked to the right, as if listening to the Carter Family sing “Wildwood Flower” via my metal fillings.
&
You who believe the most astounding lies, who wipe your behind and then sniff your fingers, the moon could look to you some nights like a shiny gold button dangling on a loose thread, but it never does.

Outskirts
 
Always thinking ahead
 
outskirts of a typical city of now
many with crimson tattoos
sown into wrinkled foreheads
 
loosening my belt
finishing my potato chips
and Pepsi chaser
 
heading back to the new wilderness
after voicing my opinions
to those that will listen
 
stirring a gathering crowd
sticks and stones
against my thick scars
 
but something about me
holds them still
perhaps tired of killing others
 
I shrug
squint
hearing angels in my head
 
my fists filled with heaviness
many wondering how
the world came to this
 
several miles out
I’m thinking I’m free
but someone sent the hounds after me
 
I crawl into my cave
temporary home
possibly my final tomb
 
but I believe I’m safe
plenty of dog biscuits
in my backpack
 
always thinking ahead
for a few more minutes to live.

FUNERALS, LOVE AFFAIRS, DEATH

 

I’ve written more poems

about funerals

than I’ve attended

funerals

 

I’ve written more poems

about love affairs

than I’ve had

love affairs

 

I’ve written more poems

about death

than I’ve

ever died