Saint Michael's Cave

a humble cave of lay poetry

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very boring books 1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)

1979



Newborns became parents in between
Her last breath
And his condemnation
When science caught up

I remember the smell
A mixture of rust and peat moss
The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse
Aged nearly 30 years
Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased
Red-turned-brown, now black

As younger men
They pick through the scene
Like patient vultures
Bagging and documenting scraps
To sleep under dust for decades

A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water
Weaving through overgrown fennel
Resting on her cheek
Now cold
Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair

His mark reaches through time
Connecting him to this place
Like an umbilical cord

Her screams travel along the creek
Only the animals hear and flee
The sound diluted into highway hum
Before humans can translate

Hummingbird heartbeats
Eyes flash in front and behind
A whirlwind of thoughts
Heels chopping the soil

The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor
Echoes through the parking structure at midday
Her gait altered by her condition
He watches
He waits

At sunrise
Family leaves the house as she does
A few months until maternity leave
And life changes
Again


Published in the Ignatian (2018)

1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)1979 Newborns became parents in between Her last breath And his condemnation When science caught up I remember the smell A mixture of rust and peat moss The scent of single malt scotch in a slaughterhouse Aged nearly 30 years Evidence bags bore signatures of the retired and deceased Red-turned-brown, now black As younger men They pick through the scene Like patient vultures Bagging and documenting scraps To sleep under dust for decades A lazy April breeze ricochets off the water Weaving through overgrown fennel Resting on her cheek Now cold Purple bruises hidden under clotted black hair His mark reaches through time Connecting him to this place Like an umbilical cord Her screams travel along the creek Only the animals hear and flee The sound diluted into highway hum Before humans can translate Hummingbird heartbeats Eyes flash in front and behind A whirlwind of thoughts Heels chopping the soil The sound of her shoes striking the concrete floor Echoes through the parking structure at midday Her gait altered by her condition He watches He waits At sunrise Family leaves the house as she does A few months until maternity leave And life changes Again Published in the Ignatian (2018) Malignant They read the tealeaves from his face Creases mapped tributaries Syllables circled sclera perimeter Consonants crumbled corneas Vowels vibrated quivering lips Eyes welled Swell of emotion Baited breath The youngest metered her breath Touching door handles through a sleeve Her shoes forced to touch linoleum And it weighed heavily on her breathing shallow Only through her nose Even her eyelids were partially closed As if this were contagious The middle child watched the windows Trying to teleport Or reverse time A strong coastal breeze held birds in place Her eyes fixated on their midair pause She wondered if time did stop Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards To a time before the doctor uttered those words Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind She tried to push pass the Latin and the science He was more comfortable behind the italics The youngest daughter translated And then she knew And then she understood Waters crested ocular banks Published in the Amaranth (2018) Lucid The silent cobalt latitude Stretches out before me In omnipotent panorama. Shielding Or camouflaging The vague uncertainties Of everyday life. The contrast, A gentle shift in shade... A nondescript, Shadowed Blue-on-blue. The tide rushes foreword, Pushed by that ambient force, Latent and elusive, Only to retreat Back to numb, comforting Wholeness. Hidden behind the blue curtain, Its pattern; The matrix of Liquid metronome, Repetitious and constant, Disguises the Slow, undetectable Progression and retreat. Published in the Amaranth (2002) Marcus I was your older brother Where was I When you slept under a bridge wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum Chasing the same high that took our mother? I remember wrestling Sticking to plastic chairs in summer Running from dogs and stealing oranges Teasing the tweakers in the ally Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years? After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count But this was the heaviest And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands Or because you shared my sweet tooth The bodies never look right They never get the face right They had 16 years to improve But yours was as bad as hers Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have But whatever you were That leathery graying flesh is not you Wrinkled deflated balloon Where was I As you bled out Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels? After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies? You were my younger brother Where were you When I returned from overseas When my sons were born? I thought we would catch up When things were normal at a wedding A funeral? You are my brother Where are you? Published in Into the Void (2017) Midnight Cinema I detect the audio The soundtrack slowly emerges First mono Then stereo And finally Dolby surround A low frequency white noise A river perhaps; wet static Then the screen lights up Not all at once. The picture flickers like a candles flame Until I can focus My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin I wonder how long the film has been rolling The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me Frame by frame My skin is dull from the pounding But it feels like 8mm The dubbing is a little off Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body As I drift out of focus again The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into Consciousness I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me But I must have jostled the projector Or else it ran out of film Because that instant Before gravity caught up to me With my head in limbo The screen went blank. The sound faded out The theater echoed empty Without even rolling the credits Published in the Amaranth (2002) Stalking woman from a safe distance As light shifts between clouds Pupils dilate Radiating from center the way Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails Like time lapsed photography Of boulevards at night The crowd covers the street Weaving in and out of itself Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving Are buying Selling Or confused Amid the swarm One figure moves with patience Graceful, metered steps Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay Behind her, the crowd reforms Consuming the space left in her wake As she glides towards me I imagine the sensation of her hair Against my cheek. Briefly, Pet names bounce through my head And almost roll off my tongue It’s this way with everyone Before we speak And I realize that she is vulgar Or rude Or not worth the trouble By the time she passes me The sun has reached its peak So I’m not even left with the shadow Of someone I desperately want to be with Or know If only for a moment. Published in the Ignatian (2006) Arboredom The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas I want to sleep under During a trickling rain Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor With my head dry My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets And write exquisite poetry on it Readers will smell the paper and touch the words And understand the struggle Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? Published in the Amaranth (2018) Burnt spoons I wasn’t completely shocked when Our spoons were missing I guess I knew But never had to see proof I was used to thin little papers Scattered across the counter top I saw money Film containers And baggies change hands In our apartment But that leftover campfire 1960’s habit was almost accepted I still regret staying home from school Silent, motionless, Breathing through my nose I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom Through my parted cloth door I heard her inhale through clenched teeth As metal pierced skin below a latex armband Ten years later At her funeral I wondered if life was really so unbearable Published in the Ignatian (2006) Lex Talionis The scene spreads over my eyes like dripping marmalade on burning toast in the summer a Salvador Dali oil pastel in the rain on a sinking ship mostly monochrome focus fleeting twelve faces shuffle into the box twenty-two eyes chart the ground I read the verdict from hers the only one who sees me Did they know this wasn’t the first time? Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? Would that change anything? Her eyes narrowed and read the floor He smiled when we heard the words I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips Published in Penumbra (2018) Cut-and-dried Cattle crowd in dense bunches Like grapes on the vine Clustered under shady patches From stubborn oaks On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop A lonely well drips low echoing empty, early like a straw catching air In a large fountain soda During previews Production waits for rain Shallow roots crumble dry Life hides in the shadows Fire fuel overtakes Green pastures The rancher is up before the sun Black coffee and denim The house stretches And creaks itself awake Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence Slowly surrounding the farm Like a patient SWAT team Vinyl siding shields advance Led by fresh asphalt Midmorning fog Rolls down from the hill Burns off the valley floor Over the dead grass on the ranch Over the green lawns of the tract homes Published in the Amaranth (2018) Downtown Smokestacks Tuesday was high resolution That bled through to the rest of the week Like a hangover I think the world stopped And watched from dusty lenses The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow I thought it was unsinkable Our dry titanic Whose fate redefined patriotism Five hours later Busy signals still throbbed In my ear Our morning speaker Choked on easy words Giving up mid-sentence Blurry color motion Flashed on screen And our meeting ended I saw expressions change Around our table Mouths gaping I slept well I hoped I imagined it And I felt guilty It was real Wednesday When our meeting was Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths Published in the Amaranth (2003) Dust bowl It’s been years… Since my feet touched this place Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat I can still see The path we carved Dirty brown against fading green Where rubber ripped through nature Poor boys pushed their bikes Panting away from suffocation Towards these hills, the great equalizers Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth I remember watching clocks roll As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five When I raced to an empty house to throw my Backpack and pump my little legs to this place Fear and frustration vanished with the road When my tires hit the trail, because my holey Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt Here I tasted the salty warmth Of blood, when we argued without words. I remember how thankful we all were Once we found those words Our slippery bodies raced home Beaded with sweat Hoping to beat the sun So we wouldn’t be beaten How comforting it was The next morning, stiff and sore When all of our wounds were Self-inflicted. Published in Nota Bene (2004) Flightless Voyeur The view from the dock Is a spectral blend of freshwater Saltwater And something in between Crawfish hide In the muddy shallows Beneath clumps of green growth Eating whatever they can catch A school of tiny fish patrols the bay Moving swiftly in formation Their silvery bodies shine Like fighter jets Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand Like a hummingbird over a flower His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay Children on shore chase each other With crabs, while winged onlookers Watch intently with open beaks Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me And cocks his narrow head to the side With one eye, he examines me And I examine him I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk He would discuss important things Engaging conversations He would not sit on a dock with a notepad And if I had his wings I wouldn’t walk anywhere. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Sedative A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates from the restless midnight coastline The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks Like the half full glasses found at the peak of evening in softly lit rooms The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist That cools summer pallets without quenching thirst Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep Without arousing suspicion. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Inequity of Men Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight. The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from Burgundy brick chimneys Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets Glass beads hang from a porch Smashing together at irregular intervals Trading beats with wind chimes next door All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died. The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking Through the damp remains of summer These large, black figures shine under a waning moon Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate The ground under their claws Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades Polished and sharpened for a late harvest Wind breathes life into An otherwise motionless field Hissing past rotten corn stalks Calico rats writhe below husks Gorging themselves on spoiled mush As children in town feast on Halloween hordes Between the rustle of westerlies Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents Who now sit still Tiny hairs stand erect Only their dilated pupils move As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward Calm sets in Destiny is secure for predator and prey As greedy children return to the streets. Published in the Amaranth (2005) Postcards From Galileo Opaque. Off-white. Intangible variance, Slightly more perfect than perfection. A transparent reflection of the sun, In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity. The minute exactness of its color, A conceptual form whose appearance Is wasted on flawed senses, And, To be named, Is not what it once was. Published in the Amaranth (2001) The Circle Checkered? My past was not “checkered” Wrong side of the tracks Tracking track marks Premature births and deaths Checkered was an understatement. It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw, modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic, Set ablaze during an earthquake And buried deep And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead, And I imitated normal until it became real. I sat through their stories Violence, addiction, poverty. We all went through it, But they stayed there. They still get their mail there. Not me. Published in the Amaranth (2017) Neptune’s Transcendencee Summer night Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight Light dancing seductively off of the surface The ebb and flow Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me The horizon rolls toward me Water swimming around me like silk serpents I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me Drifting far away from nothing Towards the horizon To become it. As the sky folds open to greet me I realize that I forgot to breathe. Published in the Amaranth (2001) Aeropagus Rise to piercing solar vulgarity Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air The dry, smoky flavored shirt I wore, now draped over The lamp, casts the room With numb ambiguity To subdue the light Burning through the curtains Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night I should leave soon But how quickly beauty spoils I write a note Wearing the mask of a lover One who will call... But I won't. Published in Amaranth (2001) Afterglow Light bends through a glass On the window sill, dancing over parted lips Eyelids flutter Teetering between dreams Splinters of sun glisten off her hair To reflect and stretch back towards the open window Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue That I have tasted before We are alone It’s quiet enough to hear Her shallow, silky breathing I watch the rise and fall of her chest clad in my white V-neck A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth Without waking her, A smile moves from the corners of her Lips when I cover her This tender silence keeps me from leaving When I know I should Published in the Amaranth (2003) Leftovers From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep The effervescent flow of curiosity That helps you in to trouble but never out Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends" Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses. Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor, It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities, Remains both unknown and unfulfilled. When you wake up from my nightmare, I'm the reason you rebel. I am your safety net, And in not failing you I have failed. Published in Amaranth (2002) The Exchange They scramble Collecting papers And signaling across the room Where fortunes and nations Are made and lost This machine Our collective provider Operates on limited resources So as we succeed Others must fail They will forfeit At least half of their self-proclaimed Machiavellian prophecy While assuredly they bring the end It is neither necessary nor justified We should know better We who are educated and literate We who have access to research We who can afford to be conservative We refuse to yield Manufacture this A contemporary, disposable society Wrapped in plastic made marketable To be sold, used And piled sky high So too are our lives To be created and disposed Once we outlive our usefulness? How do we differ so much From what we create? Our legacy will be trash The declination of millennia Concentrated into a decade of profiteering To account for a popular culture With short attention spans But embrace this beast for it drives us forward In the name of progress Pushed by an arbitrary economy That will collapse without natural resources Published in the Ignatian (2006) Subtle Production Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins Swaying in the warm breeze Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond The roar of pre-harvest Reminds me of a crowded stadium The way fans wave between innings The sun projects The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain A faded windmill twirls On the horizon, trying to harness The energy of a fickle breeze Silky mounds Around me shift Like desert dunes As the breeze dies out The windmill screeches to a halt Grinding out a greaseless moan Motionless, the scene around me Could be a million straw brooms Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil Coal plants burn black in the distance, Sending a dark trail overhead To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky White clouds froth Under blue waves As the sky’s current lurches east The windmill starts slowly Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat As gears below work through their metered cycle To power the home at its base. Published in the Ignatian (2006) We Sleep Well Changes were seismic And of unnatural inspiration Like trading flowing springs For raw sewage Degradation of nature Reflects degradation of natives And when locals perform this slaughter It deepens the insult They learned to strip-mine tradition Refine it, make it palatable Grind it into some obscure Reflection of mass production They transfuse industrial revolutions Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized” Force feeding colds and flues Until the populous learns European tongues Trees make farmland awkward So they’ll burn and flatten land Destroy cumbersome biomass To get an ounce of tradable substance Memories of a green skyline Fill gaps in the canopy Most would be thankful They didn’t live to see this They segment herd paths Harness flowing springs Domesticate predators Or carve trinkets from their flesh In biblical fashion They’ll save two of each Load them in a boat To be caged for our amusement They’ll justify this as The cost of progress Many will die at the hands of the elite Lives traded for profit margins They’ll allow nature to grow Checked and stunted Within designated confines As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing Christen the birth of modernity With the sap of old-growth trees Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause It is easy to speak of peace And dictate global policy When you are able To feed your family Published in Amaranth (2004) HAZMAT Things moved too slowly today The hours were metered in shifting shadows Minutes were measured in breaths Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame Once instantaneous, now a three step process- Close, fade to black, open again Three gradual heart beats per blink Like the shutter of an upright camera Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids Not rapidly moving I wanted to leave this place I’ve tried to leave for a week Their chemicals hurt my head Hours of boredom perforated my patience Making it easy to tear. I hid these words on the back of a place-mat But they crept forward to the front On to my plate Into my mouth And now, out through my pen In front of me is a white male Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy In this confined, stifling air He describes, for hours The dangers of prolonged exposure And I know exactly what he’s talking about Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory With poisons always within arm’s reach Slowly, his words fade away Sinking below the tide of blood in my head At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons And I don’t care. Published in Nota Bene (2004) City The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy And just as some parts of the city are lit all night My corner is dark all day I watch sunrises on color pixel displays Fed by coal plants that Spew this unwanted shade. Published in the Ignatian (2006)

Malignant


 They read the tealeaves from his face 
Creases mapped tributaries 
Syllables circled sclera perimeter  
Consonants crumbled corneas 
Vowels vibrated quivering lips 
Eyes welled 
Swell of emotion
Baited breath

The youngest metered her breath 
Touching door handles through a sleeve 
Her shoes forced to touch linoleum 
And it weighed heavily on her 
breathing shallow
Only through her nose 
Even her eyelids were partially closed
As if this were contagious 

The middle child watched the windows 
Trying to teleport 
Or reverse time
A strong coastal breeze held birds in place
Her eyes fixated on their midair pause
She wondered if time did stop
Wondered whether the birds would fly backwards
To a time before the doctor uttered those words 

Mother’s eyes searched for meaning in the words
She could feel the rest of the room leaving her behind
She tried to push pass the Latin and the science
He was more comfortable behind the italics 
The youngest daughter translated
And then she knew 
And then she understood 
Waters crested ocular banks 





Published in the Amaranth (2018)

Lucid


The silent cobalt latitude
Stretches out before me
In omnipotent panorama.
Shielding
Or camouflaging
The vague uncertainties
Of everyday life.
The contrast,
A gentle shift in shade...
A nondescript,
Shadowed
Blue-on-blue.
The tide rushes foreword,
Pushed by that ambient force,
Latent and elusive,
Only to retreat
Back to numb, comforting
Wholeness.
Hidden behind the blue curtain,
Its pattern;
The matrix of
Liquid metronome,
Repetitious and constant,
Disguises the
Slow, undetectable
Progression and retreat.
















Published in the Amaranth (2002)

Marcus


I was your older brother
Where was I
When you slept under a bridge
wearing the thick odor of urine and sweat
Wrapped in newspaper like fresh fish
Skin chapped and red, stretched over your bones like hide on a drum
Chasing the same high that took our mother?

I remember wrestling
Sticking to plastic chairs in summer 
Running from dogs and stealing oranges
Teasing the tweakers in the ally 
Dreaming about what we would do as adults, when we could escape this town
Could you have lived a lifetime in thirty years?

After years on Honor Guard, I’d carried more coffins than I could count
But this was the heaviest
And not just because the cheap handles cut into my hands 
Or because you shared my sweet tooth

The bodies never look right
They never get the face right
They had 16 years to improve
But yours was as bad as hers

Those last few years I didn’t know you like I should have
But whatever you were
That leathery graying flesh is not you
Wrinkled deflated balloon

Where was I 
As you bled out
Tarred gravel and dirt on your cracked heels?

After nearly a decade as a prosecutor, I had read thousands of police reports
Did the detective realize how closely we would read this one
How we would recite every word, tracing the font with our fingertips 
Imagining what it felt like to stumble on the side of the road as life left our bodies?

You were my younger brother
Where were you
When I returned from overseas
When my sons were born? 

I thought we would catch up
When things were normal
at a wedding
A funeral? 

You are my brother
Where are you? 



Published in Into the Void (2017)

Midnight Cinema


I detect the audio
The soundtrack slowly emerges
First mono
Then stereo
And finally
Dolby surround
A low frequency white noise
A river perhaps; wet static
Then the screen lights up
Not all at once.
The picture flickers like a candles flame
Until I can focus
My body numb from the cold ceramic tiles under my bare skin
I wonder how long the film has been rolling
The pipe overhead projects the liquid visuals down at me
Frame by frame
My skin is dull from the pounding
But it feels like 8mm
The dubbing is a little off
Those warm, slippery pixels drip down my body
As I drift out of focus again
The picture is brought back to screeching crystal clarity
When the images turn cold, throwing my mind and body back into
Consciousness
I jump to turbulent legs so as to adjust the lens beaming down at me
But I must have jostled the projector
Or else it ran out of film
Because that instant
Before gravity caught up to me
With my head in limbo
The screen went blank.
The sound faded out
The theater echoed empty
Without even rolling the credits






Published in the Amaranth (2002)

Stalking woman from a safe distance


As light shifts between clouds
Pupils dilate
Radiating from center the way
Impact breaks placidity on water’s surface
Distinct olfactory signatures leave trails
Like time lapsed photography
Of boulevards at night

The crowd covers the street
Weaving in and out of itself
Dispersing and regrouping to the rhythm
Of light bulbs. The only people who aren’t moving
Are buying
Selling
Or confused

Amid the swarm
One figure moves with patience
Graceful, metered steps
Part the crowd without interrupting its interplay
Behind her, the crowd reforms
Consuming the space left in her wake

As she glides towards me
I imagine the sensation of her hair
Against my cheek. Briefly,
Pet names bounce through my head
And almost roll off my tongue

It’s this way with everyone
Before we speak
And I realize that she is vulgar
Or rude
Or not worth the trouble

By the time she passes me
The sun has reached its peak
So I’m not even left with the shadow
Of someone I desperately want to be with
Or know
If only for a moment.





Published in the Ignatian (2006)

Arboredom


The tall ones that start thin and bloom out like umbrellas 
I want to sleep under
During a trickling rain 
Listening to the drops fall like uncooked rice on a tile floor
With my head dry
My feet sinking in mud, as I literally hug a tree 
Wait, would rain really make that sound? Would rice? 

The thin ones I want to chop down with an axe 
Full masculine swings, triceps and shoulders throbbing by night 
Hands numb from the impact, a strong bright white smile on my face 
Flannel torn and wet, covered in woodchips and dirt
Cut out the middle, burn it, and make a canoe to glide across the lake
To catch fish for dinner, to cook over my woodchip fire 
Wait, could I chop down a tree with an axe? Would it float? Do I own a flannel? 

The squat meaty horizontal ones I want to climb
Run up the trunk barefoot and swing from branch to branch like wooden monkey bars
Rub my palms and soles on the rough bark  
Watch the sunset while lounging on an outstretched limb 
Fall asleep under the moon and the stars to the sounds of the forest
Drink the morning dew that collects on broad leaves 
Wait, will there be bugs? Can I even do monkey bars anymore? 

The ugly useless ones I want to grind down and process 
Chip the wood like a rabid beaver, then pulverize it into a pulpy heap 
Flatten, dry, and cut it into clean sheets
And write exquisite poetry on it
Readers will smell the paper and touch the words
And understand the struggle
Wait, how do you make paper? Do people still read poetry? 





Published in the Amaranth (2018)

Burnt spoons


I wasn’t completely shocked when
Our spoons were missing
I guess I knew
But never had to see proof
I was used to thin little papers
Scattered across the counter top
I saw money
Film containers
And baggies change hands
In our apartment
But that leftover campfire
1960’s habit was almost accepted

I still regret staying home from school
Silent, motionless,
Breathing through my nose
I sat on the floor of my closet/bedroom
Through my parted cloth door
I heard her inhale through clenched teeth
As metal pierced skin below a latex armband
Ten years later
At her funeral
I wondered if life was really so unbearable





Published in the Ignatian (2006)

Lex Talionis


The scene spreads over my eyes
like dripping marmalade
on burning toast
in the summer

a Salvador Dali
oil pastel
in the rain
on a sinking ship

mostly monochrome
focus fleeting

twelve faces shuffle into the box
twenty-two eyes chart the ground 
I read the verdict from hers
the only one who sees me 

Did they know this wasn’t the first time? 
Did they know this wouldn’t be the last? 
Would that change anything? 
Her eyes narrowed and read the floor

He smiled when we heard the words
I counted the syllables of Hammurabi on my fingertips  










Published in Penumbra (2018)

Cut-and-dried


Cattle crowd in dense bunches 
Like grapes on the vine 
Clustered under shady patches 
From stubborn oaks 
On an otherwise burnt blonde backdrop

A lonely well drips low
echoing empty, early 
like a straw catching air 
 In a large fountain soda 
During previews 

Production waits for rain 
Shallow roots crumble dry
Life hides in the shadows
Fire fuel overtakes 
Green pastures 

The rancher is up before the sun
Black coffee and denim 
The house stretches 
And creaks itself awake 
Child embraces a few more minutes of sleep

Subdivisions creep toward the wire fence
Slowly surrounding the farm 
Like a patient SWAT team
Vinyl siding shields advance 
Led by fresh asphalt
Midmorning fog 
Rolls down from the hill
Burns off the valley floor
Over the dead grass on the ranch 
Over the green lawns of the tract homes






Published in the Amaranth (2018)

Downtown Smokestacks


Tuesday was high resolution
That bled through to the rest of the week
Like a hangover

I think the world stopped
And watched from dusty lenses
The fiery conclusion to 8 years of foreshadow

I thought it was unsinkable
Our dry titanic
Whose fate redefined patriotism

Five hours later
Busy signals still throbbed
In my ear

Our morning speaker
Choked on easy words
Giving up mid-sentence

Blurry color motion
Flashed on screen
And our meeting ended

I saw expressions change
Around our table
Mouths gaping

I slept well
I hoped I imagined it
And I felt guilty

It was real Wednesday
When our meeting was
Full of puffy eyes and closed mouths








Published in the Amaranth (2003)

Dust bowl


It’s been years…
Since my feet touched this place
Since my mouth tasted its floating dirt
Since my skin felt the sting of dry heat

I can still see
The path we carved
Dirty brown against fading green
Where rubber ripped through nature

Poor boys pushed their bikes
Panting away from suffocation
Towards these hills, the great equalizers
Covered with veiny trails of ambitious youth

I remember watching clocks roll
As teachers rambled on towards two fifty-five
When I raced to an empty house to throw my
Backpack and pump my little legs to this place

Fear and frustration vanished with the road
When my tires hit the trail, because my holey
Two-sizes-too-big shirt looked the same as my
Buddies’ once we were covered with dirt

Here I tasted the salty warmth
Of blood, when we argued without words.
I remember how thankful we all were
Once we found those words

Our slippery bodies raced home
Beaded with sweat
Hoping to beat the sun
So we wouldn’t be beaten

How comforting it was
The next morning, stiff and sore
When all of our wounds were
Self-inflicted.






Published in Nota Bene (2004)

Flightless Voyeur


The view from the dock
Is a spectral blend of freshwater
Saltwater
And something in between

Crawfish hide
In the muddy shallows
Beneath clumps of green growth
Eating whatever they can catch

A school of tiny fish patrols the bay
Moving swiftly in formation
Their silvery bodies shine
Like fighter jets

Mosquitoes swarm any movement like an angry mob
Thirsty for warm blood. One hovers over my hand
Like a hummingbird over a flower
His bulging eyes give him a panoramic view of the bay

Children on shore chase each other
With crabs, while winged onlookers
Watch intently with open beaks
Glossy eyes reflect blue-green in monochrome

One of these lanky creatures stops in front of me
And cocks his narrow head to the side
With one eye, he examines me
And I examine him

I think he wonders what he would do if he could talk
He would discuss important things
Engaging conversations
He would not sit on a dock with a notepad

And if I had his wings
I wouldn’t walk anywhere.





Published in the Amaranth (2017)

Sedative


A thick froth of dark baritone lullaby radiates 
from the restless midnight coastline
The sea’s soliloquy plays below the moon for a captive audience
The plot twists through a sandy gauntlet
Stretching up on its toes to crash over the melting rocks
Like the half full glasses 
found at the peak of evening 
in softly lit rooms

The shore drips with a salty bitter intoxicating mist
That cools summer pallets 
without quenching thirst
Sending tired inhibitions into dangerously deep sleep
Without arousing suspicion.











Published in the Amaranth (2017)

Inequity of Men


Crisp air sharpens senses in the pale blue of autumn twilight.
The streets are camouflaged with the changing hues
Of deciduous jigsaw puzzles

Thin plums of gray-white smoke rise from
Burgundy brick chimneys
Sending the aroma of treated pine into the streets

Glass beads hang from a porch
Smashing together at irregular intervals
Trading beats with wind chimes next door

All the songbirds have migrated, hidden, or died.
The only birds left are on lawns, quietly pecking
Through the damp remains of summer

These large, black figures shine under a waning moon
Walking cautiously, they slowly investigate
The ground under their claws

Thick, pronounced shoulders sit under iridescent eyes
Obsidian beaks glisten like Kaiser blades
Polished and sharpened for a late harvest

Wind breathes life into
An otherwise motionless field
Hissing past rotten corn stalks

Calico rats writhe below husks
Gorging themselves on spoiled mush
As children in town feast on Halloween hordes

Between the rustle of westerlies
Wet friction scrapes towards the rodents
Who now sit still

Tiny hairs stand erect
Only their dilated pupils move
As a flickering tongue leads reptilian scales forward

Calm sets in
Destiny is secure for predator and prey
As greedy children return to the streets.



Published in the Amaranth (2005)

Postcards From Galileo



Opaque.
Off-white.
Intangible variance,
Slightly more perfect than perfection.
A transparent reflection of the sun,
In surreal, almost eerie synchronicity.
The minute exactness of its color,
A conceptual form whose appearance
Is wasted on flawed senses,
And,
To be named,
Is not what it once was.












Published in the Amaranth (2001)

The Circle


Checkered?
My past was not “checkered”
Wrong side of the tracks
Tracking track marks
Premature births and deaths

Checkered was an understatement.
It was calico confetti, abstract jigsaw,
modern art put through a wood chipper, plastered to a broken mosaic,
Set ablaze during an earthquake
And buried deep

And I left it there, buried deep, with the dead,
And I imitated normal until it became real.

I sat through their stories
Violence, addiction, poverty.
We all went through it,
But they stayed there. They still get their mail there.

Not me. 











Published in the Amaranth (2017)

Neptune’s Transcendencee


Summer night
Shimmering blue in the pale moonlight
Light dancing seductively off of the surface
The ebb and flow
Rippling a long blue finger that motions to me
The horizon rolls toward me
Water swimming around me like silk serpents
I lay limp as the sea gently nudges me
Drifting far away from nothing
Towards the horizon
To become it.
As the sky folds open to greet me
I realize that I forgot to breathe.












Published in the Amaranth (2001)

Aeropagus


Rise to piercing solar vulgarity
Fragrant nuances still seethe in the stale, heavy air
The dry, smoky flavored shirt
I wore, now draped over
The lamp, casts the room
With numb ambiguity
To subdue the light
Burning through the curtains

Foggy, muffled sounds of the shower
Barely reach my ears, still dull from the night
I should leave soon
But how quickly beauty spoils

I write a note
Wearing the mask of a lover
One who will call...
But I won't.












Published in Amaranth (2001)

Afterglow


Light bends through a glass
On the window sill, dancing over parted lips
Eyelids flutter
Teetering between dreams
Splinters of sun glisten off her hair
To reflect and stretch back towards the open window
Her mouth is painted a deep autumn hue 
That I have tasted before
We are alone
It’s quiet enough to hear 
Her shallow, silky breathing
I watch the rise and fall of her chest
clad in my white V-neck
A breeze grazes the tiny hairs on her neck
Her drowsy limbs flail blindly for warmth
Without waking her,
A smile moves from the corners of her
Lips when I cover her
This tender silence keeps me from leaving
When I know I should













Published in the Amaranth (2003)

Leftovers


From that dark drafty hallway I watched you sleep
The effervescent flow of curiosity
That helps you in to trouble but never out
Has drifted away like your fair-weather "friends"
Drowned in Dixie cups and shot glasses.
Your scant wrapping paper is in a pile on the floor,
It’s purpose; whether to punctuate your presence or distract from your insecurities,
Remains both unknown and unfulfilled.
When you wake up from my nightmare, 
I'm the reason you rebel.
I am your safety net,
And in not failing you 
I have failed.




Published in Amaranth (2002)

The Exchange


They scramble
Collecting papers
And signaling across the room
Where fortunes and nations
Are made and lost

This machine
Our collective provider
Operates on limited resources
So as we succeed
Others must fail

They will forfeit
At least half of their self-proclaimed
Machiavellian prophecy
While assuredly they bring the end
It is neither necessary nor justified

We should know better
We who are educated and literate
We who have access to research
We who can afford to be conservative
We refuse to yield

Manufacture this
A contemporary, disposable society
Wrapped in plastic made marketable
To be sold, used
And piled sky high

So too are our lives
To be created and disposed
Once we outlive our usefulness?
How do we differ so much
From what we create?

Our legacy will be trash
The declination of millennia
Concentrated into a decade of profiteering
To account for a popular culture
With short attention spans

But embrace this beast for it
drives us forward
In the name of progress
Pushed by an arbitrary economy
That will collapse without natural resources






Published in the Ignatian (2006)

Subtle Production


Wheat stalks trade blows with my bare shins
Swaying in the warm breeze
Like dwarf palm trees, dyed blond

The roar of pre-harvest
Reminds me of a crowded stadium
The way fans wave between innings

The sun projects
The sky’s shadow onto rolling hills
And shaded clouds chase each other through flowing grain

A faded windmill twirls
On the horizon, trying to harness
The energy of a fickle breeze

Silky mounds
Around me shift
Like desert dunes

As the breeze dies out
The windmill screeches to a halt
Grinding out a greaseless moan

Motionless, the scene around me
Could be a million straw brooms
Flipped upside-down and stuck into the rich soil

Coal plants burn black in the distance,
Sending a dark trail overhead
To cut through the clouds and dilute into the pale sky

White clouds froth
Under blue waves
As the sky’s current lurches east

The windmill starts slowly
Its mechanical hum hidden between rushing wheat
As gears below work through their metered cycle
To power the home at its base.








Published in the Ignatian (2006)

We Sleep Well


Changes were seismic 
And of unnatural inspiration
Like trading flowing springs
For raw sewage 

Degradation of nature
Reflects degradation of natives
And when locals perform this slaughter
It deepens the insult

They learned to strip-mine tradition 
Refine it, make it palatable
Grind it into some obscure
Reflection of mass production 

They transfuse industrial revolutions
Intravenously advancing the collective “uncivilized”
Force feeding colds and flues
Until the populous learns European tongues  

Trees make farmland awkward 
So they’ll burn and flatten land
Destroy cumbersome biomass
To get an ounce of tradable substance

Memories of a green skyline
Fill gaps in the canopy
Most would be thankful
They didn’t live to see this

They segment herd paths
Harness flowing springs
Domesticate predators
Or carve trinkets from their flesh

In biblical fashion
They’ll save two of each
Load them in a boat 
To be caged for our amusement 

They’ll justify this as 
The cost of progress
Many will die at the hands of the elite 
Lives traded for profit margins  
They’ll allow nature to grow
Checked and stunted 
Within designated confines
As long as it remains aesthetically pleasing 

Christen the birth of modernity
With the sap of old-growth trees 
Burnt fossil fuels prompt worldwide hot flashes
Signaling Mother Nature’s premature menopause 

It is easy to speak of peace
And dictate global policy
When you are able 
To feed your family 



Published in Amaranth (2004)

HAZMAT


Things moved too slowly today
The hours were metered in shifting shadows
Minutes were measured in breaths
Blinks were frozen and seen frame by frame
Once instantaneous, now a three step process-
Close, fade to black, open again
Three gradual heart beats per blink
Like the shutter of an upright camera
Blood in my head sounds like whitewater rapids
Not rapidly moving
I wanted to leave this place
I’ve tried to leave for a week
Their chemicals hurt my head
Hours of boredom perforated my patience
Making it easy to tear.
I hid these words on the back of a place-mat
But they crept forward to the front
On to my plate
Into my mouth
And now, out through my pen
In front of me is a white male
Aged 18-35 with a wife and 2.5 kids
He’s telling me the secrets of alchemy
In this confined, stifling air
He describes, for hours
The dangers of prolonged exposure
And I know exactly what he’s talking about
Whose idea was it to put me through this purgatory
With poisons always within arm’s reach
Slowly, his words fade away
Sinking below the tide of blood in my head
At the risk of being disrespectful, I sleep
I can’t remember if I drank one of those poisons
And I don’t care.









Published in Nota Bene (2004)

City


The sun sets early morning clouds ablaze
Burning cotton out of the sky as the wind
Carries ashes east to blanket sleepy villages

Dusty dawn hues make scenes two-dimensional and monochrome
As faceless characters float through gray fishbowls at the feet of their
Metallic Adonis, some with scaffolding leg braces to support a meaty carriage

Giant industrial idols that reach toward heaven
To bypass entrance requirements or to defiantly
Proclaim that no such place exists, or is necessary

When the smoke clears, few rays penetrate our metal-glass canopy
And just as some parts of the city are lit all night
My corner is dark all day

I watch sunrises on color pixel displays
Fed by coal plants that
Spew this unwanted shade.












Published in the Ignatian (2006)