Thursday, December 4, 2014

Saturday, November 1, 2014

A Parlay With The Lord

Now, y'all know 'bout Mirko, right? Called him Butch, most of the time. Boy used to rent a room right there, above Ms. Rosy's general store. Did his drinkin' like it ain't wasn't nobody's business Butch did, but gentle too, you know? Never hurt a fly. Could've if he wanted to, though. Big guy. Arms like this. Came back from the war and never was quite right again, boy used to come down to church e'rry Sundy and cry like a baby when Pastor Brown'd go on all 'bout Hell and sinnin' and repentin' in the face of the Lord. Think Old Butch knew more 'bout hell than the preacherman ever did, though. Came a Sundy Butch shot hisself in the head two times. Wanted a parlay with the Lord so bad, doughboy had the wherewhital to squeeze the trigger twice, you know? Yeah, wasn't much 'bout Hell old Butch didn't know 'bout, I reckon. Think on that a bit now. Think on that a good long while before y'all go callin' to bomb Bhagdad or Iraq or some faraway forrin place like that. Ain't no such thing as takin' a war over there, that some poor boy ain't gonna bring right back over here.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Exactly unlike crystal

a lady walks by
at seven thirty
every day

she's dressed in shades of sun bleached lichen
carrying a plastic shopping bag

her styrofoam bright hairdo
immovable
despite the morning breeze

everything so arbitrary
but incredibly precise
-in almost every way
it's exactly unlike crystal

life spills
from the magpies’ chatter
as the morning lady turns the corner
into other streets

it soaks the early autumn
of my skin and bones
watching from their concrete box
stiff from slightly overthinking

it all depends on everything
and in the end?
-but nothing ever ends

man there ain’t even a beginning

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Summer Showers

a spider's waiting out
the summer showers
in the corner of the window

though I have nothing to wait for today
still -out of habit
and a deference to nature-
I too will watch the raindrops smash apart
from behind my book and coffee

it turns the street
into an asphalt mirror
reflecting the first blue bits of sky

much later
when I do not sleep

the rolling thunder