The Child In You 


At times when you are sleeping 
I see the child you once were
Dreaming on the mattress 
In the space next to me.

If we had a daughter
She might have looked 
Much like you do now
If I cracked the door to her room 
And checked on her slumber.

What we are does not go away. 
It remains, buried under
Added flesh. Dormant. Waiting 
For the right moment.
A twinkle appears in old eyes.
The child is there, laughing,
Waiting to come out and play. 




Catching What You Can

- for Daniel Lange

Morning on the Willamette,
Many boats are out there in the nice weather. 
You see two fish caught, none by you.

You may or may not 
bring home dinner tonight.
It's too soon to tell.
Even without a salmon yet,
You find the day well spent.

"It's been a beautiful morning."
"A glorious day."

You can take that much 
back with you at the end of a hook;
Let it leap into your net
Of its own accord.

"A beautiful morning."
"A glorious day."




Initial Offering 

Some people got rich
On Wall Street today,
But the poor in Kensington 
Are still poor,
And the addicts still need
To fight for every quarter 
They can get
In order to stick 
The next needle in their neck.

Montana

Montana, that's where you can go around
Screamin' loony stuff while runnin' butt ass
Naked in the woods and only the tourists
Think you're nuts.  Yup, a whole 'nother
World on the edge of so-called civilization.
Well, true, the Injuns worry a little over the
Freaky white man but they already know,
From experience, whitey's born that way,
Just can't help it.  A while back, they thought
About rounding up them pale faces and then
Sending them back to Europe.  But the ones
That stayed in the homeland wouldn't stand
For it.  Okay, the Irish did, reluctantly, take
Pity and said they'd take a few.  But none
Crazier than they are themselves.  Oy vey.
In that case, that ship never sailed.

“In Between the Whisky Sweats”
 
A dead man’s music
is my best friend now,
and he becomes less
deceased with each sip
of cheap whisky
(a plastic bottle
so many walked by,
believing in the recommendation
of something aged
12 or more years
from the cashier
at 11:30 AM),
so that the silence
is left dreaming of one day
when it’ll make
the most beautiful music
and we’ll be the ones
with nothing left
to say.

GOODBYE ECHO

Sleep well above
the crystal stars of Hibbing
where the cynical minstrel
smoked cigarettes on your sofa
while listening to
Jimmy Rodgers.
How much did you miss him,
Echo, when he traded in
the icy winters of Minnesota
for the neon nights
of New York City?
Something tells me
he remembers and,
even as we speak,
I'm guessing he's picking up
his guitar to write more
about the winds
& where they hit heavy
on the borderline.

 

  

ICY RIVER


            “I am a rock. I am an island.”

                                                --Paul Simon

 
I’m the kind of man

who hunts grief down

in the rain-slick streets

of a downtown night

and screams

I’m not afraid of you.

I eat devastation

for breakfast.

The bankrupt business.

The lost pet.

The girlfriend

who dumped you.

The unfaithful spouse.

Death. Loss. Tragedy.

None of it matters.

And rest assured,

that the single tear

you see working its way

down my cheek

like a rivulet

from icy river

means nothing. 

Enigma

If eternity in the future is forever,
And eternity past is also forever,
Perhaps maybe now is never,
But it’s more likely now is forever.

Dutchman’s Hole 

Look, listen!
At the end of Hubbard Creek, 
where the county highway halts
and Peterbilt trucks jake brake 
felled Douglas firs across sharp corners. 
A stream babbles along two miles 
of logging roads, boring deep 
into the crumbling Callahans; 
salmon slip into shady pools, 
spawning beneath silent beaver dams.
Look, listen! 
There—where the waterfall crashes 
into a cold, dark pool, 
and a little boy coaxes his gullible 
cousin into “the hot springs”—
their lean frames leap from the rocks 
in sneaks stitched together with duct tape.
Cracked blue lips shivering 
in the hottest sun of the summer— 
smiling with smooth skipping rocks
and arrowheads carved by Umpqua hands. 

Constantly Drunk
 
I’m drinking to forget memories and remember feelings,
I’m drinking to touch Death and feel alive.
in every brimful lowball of bourbon lie truths untold,
in every bottle of overproof rum hide beauty unworldly.
it makes wrong feel right, and right feel wrong.
after every drink, my words turn stronger and more truthful,
my thoughts become clearer the blurrier my mind turns.
I see things differently, I view people under different prisms.
I accept more bullshit, but I’m also more prone to call it.
it takes at least six drinks before you can discern your true friends.
it takes ten drinks to make new friends.
within the drunken haze, I can see if I’m in love, infatuated, or simply lonely.
while lost in the mist of intoxication, I decipher ideas and desires,
turning them all into lost poems or actions my sober self would never dream of.
whenever I’m asked “why do you drink?” I always say
“I can give you a list with a thousand reasons. the real question is,
why are you so damn afraid of drinking?”
and when you’re confronting a teetotaler, the real answer’s
always the same, no matter what bullshit they feed you:
“I’m afraid of my real self.”

One-Man Firing Squad


I won't, I won't, and you can't make me.
You command me to raise my rifle
and assassinate my character
by lying, stealing, cheating, adultery and murder
claiming apologetically that these are the only crops
that will grow now in this wicked, old, rocky and worn soil.
I will starve and perish long before
you will hear the click of my gun
as the trigger is pulled back in deep self-betrayal.
No, I won't, and you can't make me.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Poet

 

Well, the sleepwalker
has wandered off, again, this
time into the grand

finale of a
Chinese opera, it seems
(with a backdrop of

clouds like white roses
and the pale pink petals of
karma cascading

gently down from the
hidden catwalk above the
stage), while the friendly

neighborhood poet
is perched up on the roof of
the Pentecostal

church across the street
with a radio, fishing
for birds with a kite.

every memory is a scar


people tend to think

i'm joking when i tell

them i have no interest

living past my expiration

date


they tell me you're

only 50


you have so many

years in front of you


that always makes me

laugh


they don't understand

how every memory

is a scar


every scar is years

upon years of an

endless journey

that at least one

of us knows is

going to end


no one seems to like

talking about death


other than those of

us whom understand

exactly what it is


nothing to fear


only the natural

conclusion to life


the only way out

of this fucking hell