Monday, November 28, 2011

Cool and Dark

Words for Miles


    his cool horn
left space betwixt notes
  miles blows my mind



   cool and dark
miles left some notes



Under Construction


  ashen embers-
the august return to
  natal streams


  bidden kings-
your august return to
  milted streams



Zig Zag

Zig Zag really doesn't much,
it is pretty much straight through
as it lolls and waits on or digs out
from the winters toll

squat moss cabins tucked in with
 pallet wood smoke along this wet track
 of spent cinders and the spray
from endless brown snow melt,
hunkered down like porched wet dogs.

 a once celebrated brief reward
when you were mudded and done
with this pass up Barlow's hewn track.

It waits for you amid the trees with a tow truck
and a bright Dairy Queen, and at 40 miles per hour,
slowly it goes by quick on this last leg of the mighty trail.


Sunday, November 27, 2011


Just some fun with a song I love
(Alternate lyrics and sung to the tune of Summertime ,George Gershwin)

Supppertime, and the eatin' is greasy
Fish are cooking, we got okra to fry.
Gravy's rich, and the cornbread is risin'
Clean plates baby, who's ready for pie?

One of these evenings, your going back for seconds
Gonna be so full, you'll just want to die.
But till then darlin', there's nothing can stop you
from dreamin' of heaven , where everything's fried.

(Repeat first verse)


Tuesday, November 22, 2011



The bugle sounds to crash of limb and fast
hoof snorts with wary eye after these lost hunted
minutes run panting before the hounds
with one last darkened breath.

In-between seconds fall prey, framed then snipped,
knotted tight into strings barely thought.
Uncured without mumbling their quick-pruned fate they wordless
lay waiting for the cut and fade to black.

This lot hangs gamey fast on kitchen hooks.
But will not last the night, fast rot this Cadaver
gathered of skipped and fleeting unborn moments
Deemed unworthy of my tarried,lingered browse.

I gnaw these pendulate bones of time, numbers trapped
in my escapement. The same why's and how's and when
I gladly overstep the b-side and also-ran.
Those irritating seconds of sand between my toes 
daily preened to the quick.

On to the meat, the muscle and
the marrowed bone, the savor my mouth is set for.
Nair will this growing sinewed basin of nail scratched
flesh ever shadow my memories.

 Trawled with careful nets I hurried seine my catch. Schools
of seconds amid each passing sun, sentenced
to the bottom muck spilt from times loose pocket seams, falling
down. Unspent minutes never ticking into my spaded grave
Laughing pangs me futile as the merciless gleaner
sups, for these missing bits bland all that fills my plate
I wish for those salty absent grains of the slower pace.


Tuesday, November 15, 2011


    his muzzle found me
bleeding warm dark goodbye tears
  soon all was silent.



  no tail to wag
our bobtail greets us with her
  ever dancing hips



  colored trees
fall from their pulpits to
  rainbows below



  flowers bud-
bursting with dreamt
  deja vu



  in the lean desert
of cactus sharp coyote eyes
 -rabbits dare not move


Empire Lost

Nevada Texas loafs on Center Street

where Empire once stood,

on this black hot prairie that too few

bother to ever really plow.

Its old barns contently shedding layers

of their corrugated skins are consoled

by herds of silent rusting cars

and a dead lawn mower or two.

Muted houses lie breathless

with their plywood windowed eyes,

blinded from the glare of summer’s absolution,

dying just a little more every day.

Like slumbering frogs in a simmered pot of slow decay.

I lay back on trodden flat-blade grass in yards

of Grand Canyon cracks pleading for pardon

or faith-healed geologic repeal from the

ever blaring golden sun. This familiar sod

is no kin to my now distant home rye grass.

St Augustine turf whispers prayers for rain,

rare these late fall days. Even thunder

holds its breath till springtime comes again to call.

The evening breeze slakes the days last hours

enough to rouse the sleeping crickets to metered song. 

The black skied country night spills over me,

alive with the milky wash of stars that the cities

 hide from view. One by one each bashfully shows

their face as my eyes adjust to their stage.

I have missed you all so very much.

So here I sit, front row, center

in my sister’s kneaded garden of stubborn onions

and okra, with their leaf-bent heads stewing

in the east Texas gumbo silently hoping

to see the lost days of Empire once again.