If it wasn’t so windy

If it wasn’t so windy, we could have a fire.
I sip my bourbon with no worry of desire.
An ant crawls on my leg, I flick it off
With the respect and rigor of Eric Bischoff.
My 1920 Bourbon reminds me of prohibition,
As I smell my neighbor’s cigarette, reprobation.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,
Some admit folly, most won’t.
Nevertheless, it exists in all
As pride cometh before the fall.
The winds passover all who sit outside
For it is the home in which they reside
And if you think for a moment
That you are a worthy opponent,
You have no control.

But a dog in dirt.

The deafening silence at night
Is quiet enough to project
The voice of God to my ears
I ask, “Would it save? or fright?”

If confronted with true scales
I know which side would lean.
In a moment of desperation
I would steal the scale and set sail.

I am but a dog in dirt.
When He who owns offers
Bath and food, I decline-
I would rather revel in dirt.

Clean fur is a myth- a lie.
Do not believe other dogs
Who claim they have no fleas.
They are putrid muts, like I


My Owner does not care
That when He scratches
My ear, He must wash
His hands and scrub them bare.

While the deafening silence
Surrounds my dog house at night,
I do not fear or shake
I remember His alliance.

He escapes to his sanctuaries.

A man reads a story
To get lost in it.
Yet we do not worry
When he actually does

He is unable to tell
The difference between
What is fake, and living Hell.
He escapes with reason.

He escapes to his sanctuaries,
These paper castles protect
But they crumb to mortuaries
With the flick of a single match.

The match is held firmly
Between a pointer and thumb
Of the one called “family.”
The one, meant, to replace.

I have my father’s restlessness

I have my father’s restlessness
A generational habit to be uneasy.
My watching eyes relentless.
Staring, pestering, queasy
As I twiddle my thumbs around.
Accusatory lips bring life
To words once without sound
Cutting like a surgical knife
Putting the Other into ground.
Separating them from myself
By way of insult and overt
Injustice.  I put them on the shelf
Hide from me.  For I know not,
My power.

Build a disguise

Fifteen hours since my last.
Do I continue with my fast?
Or do I surrender like
A child made outcast.

What does it matter?
My determination will shatter
And the heft of my
Weight will only grow fatter.

As society tells me lies
And my self confidence dies,
I have no other option
But to build a disguise.

Now I am trapped between
Both with skin so sheen
Giving conflicting statements,
To neither I am keen.

Denver the Cat

She sits watching me, pupils growing
Ears tucked back, tail flowing.
Her fur covered face releases a purr.
Ready to strike, she leaps, accuracy sure.
The target?  My ankles- she latches.
I shriek and yell, she runs, and watches.
She watches, waiting for her chance.

Her chance to strike.

The Worm

You call people worms as insult
Yet in all its wriggality
That which eats dirt,
Feeds nations.

A feeding tube for the resourceful,
A knot for tying for the bored,
A game for the children,
Brought forth by a living cord.

This worm pierced onto a hook
Sacrificed for my brother’s dinner
Caught on the Muskegon river,
I thank you for your life.

You who eat dirt,
Feed my family.

You are a single flower.

You are lonely
You are a single flower
In a field of grass
Taking a foggy shower.
Beside you is another-
Colorful and covered in bees.
Why do they receive it?
Yet when a young boy sees
The beauty of your petals
He notices your shoots.
Grasping your stem gently
He pulls, scooping your roots
Carrying you home
To his home, now yours too.
Placing you gently in a pot.
A new home, just him, and you.


I let it rest on my tongue
Only for a moment’s time.
Then the capsule is formally flung,
Washed down with Corona and lime.

The combination soothes my itchy head
But it wakens my dreams.
I drift slowly to sleep in giant bed
Only to be woken by screams.

They are my own yells
Escaping the dreamland,
I had a dream about Kells.
And how she released my hand.

Reminds me daily, to grow up

As I sit silently sinking
Sinking into a chair not fair
I stare at my sandy hair.
Sandy is not the truth,
It is more brown, yet shines.

My hair used to be bleach blonde.
Wildness for hair in my childhood
The brightness faded, now only flickering.
It shines slightly with right light
Yet will never shine the same.

Perhaps it yet could shine white.
Perhaps it could shine for a few bucks.
A cheap can of spray, lathered on
With a liberal coating of regret
Instantly setting in, easily washed.

No, for I must be willing to admit
That my hair is not bleach
That my childhood has ended.
The dusty brown upon my head,
Reminds me daily to grow up.

Yet, I never will.